The Art of Kissing John Casey
by Lassroyale
Summary: Chuck and Casey have a new mission: Infiltrate a cruise ship and make contact with a C.I.A. asset who has information regarding Fulcrum and the Intersect - as a couple. Chuck has one week to learn how to sell his cover as Casey's boyfriend.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I confess this fic came to me after a dream I had while taking a nap the other day. It has stuck with me, so here we go! Enjoy. Also, my other Chuck/Casey story, 'The Blood is Love', is on hold for now.

**The Art of Kissing John Casey – Part One**

The order came on a Sunday afternoon as Chuck sat at the long table in Castle's main room, leafing through the newest issue of Game Informer with an eagerness he couldn't quite chase from his fingers. He was half-listening to the deep rumble of Casey's voice as he rattled off his weekly report to General Beckman. Chuck knew he should probably be doing something else – Morgan had called him earlier in the day ranting about a new mission plan for Call of Duty – but he and Casey had come to an unspoken agreement about his presence during these weekly reports. Basically, Casey hadn't figured out a way to keep him out and Chuck needed his time away from listening to Ellie and Awesome discuss wedding plans, so as long as he stayed quiet while Casey spoke to the General, he managed to avoid any threats of bodily harm.

Usually. Today: so far so good.

After giving his report, Casey would clean his guns and Chuck would ask him questions about them. He didn't _really_ care about weaponry, but he liked the passion in Casey's voice when he spoke about the makes and models of handguns. It was a nice change from Casey's usual diatribe, which generally consisted of grunts and monosyllabic answers, peppered with the occasional threat that Chuck was certain he'd carry out if pushed too far. It'd become such a routine for them that Chuck found he actually looked forward to his Sundays with Casey. The same couldn't be said of the NSA agent, but he tolerated Chuck's presence and that was good enough for him.

Chuck could tell that Casey was close to finishing up with his report by the way the big man shifted his weight slightly from foot-to-foot. It was a subtle movement, one that someone who _hadn't_ made it a point to study John Casey in his free time would miss. He didn't look up from his magazine as he asked, "Almost time to clean your guns, buddy?"

Casey didn't acknowledge him – neither did the General, for that matter – but Chuck caught the barest hint of a growl vibrate in the agent's chest. It was about as faintly ominous as a distant rumble of thunder, and Chuck tried not to grin with obvious triumph. Casey's answering growl was louder. Chuck raised his magazine to hide his smirk.

He was perusing an editorial of the upcoming Portal 2 videogame, when he heard Casey's voice take on an odd pitch. He glanced up and caught a glimpse of the agent's face, his usual stoic expression momentarily unguarded and…_shocked?_ Chuck straightened in his seat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. It seemed more dangerous, but then again, the air around John Casey was always rife with a bit of violent promise.

Shifting his eyes to the video link, Chuck realized that General Beckman was looking at him with an air of expectation. He cleared his throat and glanced at Casey, who was staring at him with a vaguely puzzled expression. "Um, sorry?" said Chuck, looking back towards the image of the General. "I didn't hear what you said..."

General Beckman looked as if she just barely suppressed rolling her eyes at him. Nevertheless, she folded her hands in front of her and fixed Chuck with a piercing glare which lost none of its intensity over the video feed. "I was telling Major Casey that you have a new mission. Together, you will pose as a couple on a cruise ship called the Atlantis and make contact with one of our C.I.A. assets. He has information that is useful to us - information about Fulcrum and the Intersect. We need you to go and see if you flash on anything he says. Agent Casey will accompany you for your protection, in case any members of Fulcrum decide to interfere."

Chuck wondered if his hearing had gone fuzzy on him. Maybe Casey put something in his water because he thought General Beckman had said... "Wait, excuse me," he sputtered with an unsure smile, "but did you say Casey and I would be posing as a _couple_. Can't Sarah and I go instead...?" He looked hopefully at General Beckman, then added: "I know she's away on a separate mission right now, but I'm sure if you called her and let her know the situation it wouldn't be a problem. I mean, sure, I don't need any extra protection besides Casey," which was absolutely true, considering what had happened to the last guy who had tried to mess with Chuck.

It hadn't been pretty - _at all_ - and Chuck had begun to suspect that the guy might have just been an over-interested third party and not some secret spy like Casey had said he was. This suspicion was further evidenced by the fact that Chuck hadn't flashed on the guy, and when he had done a little snooping of his own he'd discovered that the guy was a sales rep from the Beverly Hills Buy More branch. Still, he'd learned not to ask too many questions when it came to things that put Casey in a violent mood – which were too many to count, anyway. Chuck continued his train of thought where he'd trailed off, when General Beckman loudly cleared her throat.

"I'm just saying," Chuck resumed earnestly, "wouldn't it be, I dunno, _odd_ if Casey and I suddenly started…well, if we were to…pretend and…" he couldn't finish the thought. Chuck looked plaintively at the General and then up at the ceiling, wishing fervently for a moment that a chuck of Castle would break off and strike him where he sat.

The General flicked her gaze over to Casey who was looking resolutely at the screen, his jaw clenched so tightly Chuck thought his teeth would be ground to dust.

"No, Chuck," she replied carefully. Chuck swallowed - this was going to be bad. It was always bad when the General used his first name. "Our contact has ensconced himself on a cruise for gay men. For this mission, it can only be you and Major Casey, as Agent Walker is unsuited for the type of cover needed."

_'Right,'_ thought Chuck, _'because Sarah is a woman.'_

"Will this be a problem, Mr. Bartowski?" asked the General sharply. She glanced down at what Chuck assumed was a dossier on her desk. "If it proves to be...too difficult an assignment for you, we can call in someone else to pose as Major Casey's lover. It would be too bad, since your presence would prove beneficial because of your unique ability, but the main point of this mission is to meet with our contact and secure the information he has."

Chuck risked a glance at Casey and felt the full weight of the big man's gaze settle over him. He stared at the agent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Who would take my place?"

"Agent Cole Barker."

Chuck saw Casey's head snap around at such a blinding pace that he was surprised he didn't hurt his neck. "Surely you can't mean that, General," Casey rumbled, his voice little more than a somewhat intelligible growl.

Chuck, who had slowly been learning the nuances of the various grunts and sounds that Casey tended to use as a means of communication, knew that right then the NSA agent was very, _very_ pissed. At least Casey seemed to dislike the British agent - that suave bastard - as much as Chuck did.

"Agent Barker, despite not having the Intersect in his brain, is otherwise perfect alternative for this operation, Major," replied General Beckman. She fixed Casey with a pointed stare. After a moment, Casey turned away from the screen and muttered something angrily beneath his breath. Chuck could read the tension in the set of his shoulders.

"No."

Both the General and Casey turned to look at Chuck. Casey frowned at him; the General gave him a thin-lipped smile. "Very well then, Mr. Bartowski, I'll notify MI-6 that we will be requiring Agent Barker's services. Now Major-"

"- No," interrupted Chuck, rising from his seat. "That's not what I meant." The General arched a brow and Chuck hastened to explain. "I meant, 'no, I don't want Agent Barker to take my place.'" Chuck didn't look at Casey, though he could feel the intensity of the other man's gaze rake over him. "I'll go with Casey. I'll do the mission."

The General nodded. "Very well. Major Casey, I'll have the mission brief sent to you. You have one week to prepare Mr. Bartowski for the mission and to solidify your cover. After that, you both have tickets to for a vacation in the Caribbean aboard the cruise ship _Atlantis_. With that, the General cut the video feed and the screen went black.

Uncomfortable silence crept into the room. Chuck finally looked towards Casey, knowing he would find the big man looking back at him.

"Not a word, Bartowski," Casey growled. He looked down at the disassembled guns spread out on the table, and with a sigh of disgust, he turned away. He stomped up the stairs and punched in the code to the door that led out to the Orange Orange. The door slid open with a quiet hiss. Before he disappeared, Casey paused and looked over one broad shoulder at Chuck. "Be at my place by 7:00. We're having dinner." Casey turned away again and Chuck saw the effort it took for him to unclench his fists. "Pack a bag too - you're spending the night."

"Wait! Hey Casey!" Chuck blurted, nearly stumbling over his chair in his haste to catch the agent before he disappeared. He took the stairs two at a time and abruptly came face-to-face with Casey's scowling face, as he barreled through the door and out into the Orange Orange. He just managed to stop himself from running into the other man. Casey folded his arms across his chest and waited, clearly uninterested in anything Chuck was about to say.

"Uh," Chuck began, suddenly at a loss for words. The speech he'd hastily cobbled together in his head evaporated beneath the heat behind the glare that Casey pinned on him. He carded a hand through his mop of brown hair and then asked, somewhat lamely, "Should I pick up anything?"

"2% milk," Casey replied, seeming to push the words through his teeth with forced effort. "I'm out."

With that Casey disappeared and the door closed shut behind him.

(To be continued.)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Oh look, a boy-kiss! I've also knocked my Merlin chapter edits out of the way – mostly – so I will be working on chapter three of this ASAP. I hope you guys enjoy the chapter! 

**The Art of Kissing John Casey – Part Two**

***

Chuck stood outside of Casey's door holding a duffel bag and a carton of milk. Casey had sent him a text earlier, reminding him to pick up the half gallon of 2% before he came over. Apparently, Casey wanted to make pancakes in the morning. Chuck glanced at the carton of milk and frowned - he hated 2%. It was just so..._thick._

Chuck raised his hand and prepared to knock, but paused as a thread of pure cowardliness shot through him - could he really do this? Could he really pretend to be Casey's...lover? Chuck shied away from the word. Boyfriend? No...that was just as bad.

Chuck sighed and raised his hand again when the door was suddenly yanked open. Casey's muscular, 6'4" frame filled the doorway and Chuck took a moment to absorb the enormity of the man who stood before him. He looked at the way Casey's thin t-shirt was stretched taut across his chest, before he let his gaze slide over the broadness of his shoulders. "Uh, hey buddy!" he said, forced cheer coating his tone. He ended up sounding thoroughly intimidated, however, which he supposed wasn't really the point of this little visit.

"If you're done staring, get in," Casey grumbled, though when Chuck looked up at him he saw that a small smirk was plastered across the agent's face. Casey stepped back and jerked his head towards the interior. Chuck slid past him, noticing for the first time that Casey smelled fresh, like soap and - strangely - cocoa butter. As he brushed by, he grazed the skin of Casey's arm with his hand. He felt heat emanating from the other man, too warm against the back of his knuckles; too soft to belong to John Casey.

Casey grabbed Chuck's shoulder - his palm felt as if it were burning straight through his thin, white t-shirt - and shoved him in the rest of the way. "Jesus, Bartowski, you don't have to be such a damn girl about everything," he muttered. Glancing outside suspiciously, Casey closed the door and locked it. 

Chuck stood near the countertop and tried not to twiddle his thumbs as Casey moved around the kitchen and prepared dinner. He couldn't help but feel a bit useless - Casey had initially tasked him with chopping up an onion for their meal - but after he had nearly taken the tip of his finger off with the knife, he'd decided that it was safer if Chuck did nothing. So Chuck stood there and observed the manner in which Casey moved, finding that his usual inane babble had abandoned him.

Chuck tried not to notice how Casey seemed to _prowl_, every motion smooth and effortless. Though he was huge, Casey had a sort of grace that Chuck knew he'd never possess. It was the kind of grace that was bred from a lifetime of training - from a lifetime of service. Chuck leaned his elbows on the countertop and wondered if he'd ever be in that kind of shape. Admittedly, he still got winded whenever he had to run for long distances, though in his defense, it was generally because he was running _from_ something and not out of any sort of enjoyment.

"What did you tell your sister?" Casey asked suddenly, his gruff voice startling Chuck from his thoughts.

"Oh, Ellie?" Chuck replied stupidly.

Casey rolled his eyes. "No, moron, your other sister."

Chuck shot him an unimpressed glance and looked away for a minute. "I told her that I was spending the night at Morgan's for a Call of Duty tournament." He shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "She wasn't thrilled."

"Your car?"

"Parked it down the street in that spot you showed me."

Casey grunted his approval and turned back to their dinner. Chuck waited a moment, then ventured, "So, what're we having for dinner?"

"Spaghetti," Casey replied. "Go set the table - plates are in the cabinet to the right of the sink and silverware is in the drawer below it."

"Nothing in there that'll blow me up, right?" Chuck asked jokingly, as he retrieved the plates from the cabinet.

Casey looked at him over at his shoulder and offered up a grin that wasn't reassuring in the least. "Maybe," he said. 

"I don't think I can eat another bite!" Chuck exclaimed contentedly. He pushed himself back from the table and slouched down in his seat, comfortably full and relaxed after eating a delicious meal. Who knew John Casey was actually a good cook? Chuck tucked away the information to mull over later as he wistfully eyed the lone meatball remaining on his plate, surrounded by a splatter of red sauce. Casey, who sat across from him, speared the meatball with his fork and stuffed it into his mouth. "Hey!" Chuck protested, sitting up. "I was going to eat that."

Casey shrugged and muttered, "Too slow, Bartowski." He finished chewing, slow and methodical, and pushed his plate to one side. He rested his elbows on the tabletop and Chuck could see Casey's demeanor change, becoming all business. His blue eyes searched Chuck's face, picking out the chinks in the false, brittle grin that suddenly split his face so widely it hurt.

"What's the game plan?" he asked, feeling the need to break the silence with pressing urgency. Having Casey sit there and just _stare_ at him, was...disconcerting, to say the least. He glanced around, feeling oddly exposed in Casey's apartment, like he was a visitor to a very alien place. In essence he was.

Casey continued to stare at him with that sort of look that told Chuck he was stripping back all of his layers and examining them at his leisure. Finally, he leaned forward, his steely eyes raking over Chuck. "Listen Bartowski, I don't have the time to pussyfoot about this with you. We've got a week to become a convincing enough couple to sell our relationship to a bunch of strangers. We're going to have to cover a lot of ground over the next few days and I need to know that you can do this. I need to know you won't do something moronic and blow the mission." Casey fixed him with a challenging stare and Chuck, against his better judgment, felt his hackles rise.

He gave Casey an offended look and held up his hands defensively. "Listen, the insults? Those can stop. I've been on a few more missions now and I think I can handle this," he paused and gestured between the two of them. He put emphasis on the word, diffusing the significance with an offhanded tone he didn't quite believe himself.

Casey only gave him another long look, his mouth tugged down into a frown. Typical. The agent snorted, derisive, and told Chuck to help him clean up in the kitchen. 

The pair fell into an uneasy routine as they cleaned up from the meal, side-by-side at the sink, their shoulders occasionally brushing, fingertips occasionally touching beneath the sudsy water. Chuck knew that if this were any other circumstance that A) he wouldn't be there and B) Casey wouldn't tolerate the idle contact. Casey was silent throughout, except for the occasional command to pass him the sponge or to re-dry something that Chuck apparently had failed to dry to his liking. Overall, it was domestic and strangely intimate.

"Soo," he said, once everything had been washed, dried, and put away. "What now?"

Casey turned to him, and suddenly, using all of his height and considerable bulk to his advantage, he crowded Chuck against the counter. Casey's arms were a cage of unyielding flesh and muscle on either side of his body; trapping him. Chuck's nostrils were suddenly full of Casey's smell. A burst of heat made his chest too hot beneath his shirt, when he felt the hard muscles of the agent's chest press against his own. They were close enough that Chuck could see the flecks of darker blue that surrounded Casey's pupils.

Chuck swallowed nervously, but before he could back away a step, Casey struck with all of the speed and calculated force he used in the field.

Casey's large hands were suddenly cupped beneath his jaw on either side of his face, palms rough and calloused. Chuck could feel the pads of his fingers thrumming with a sort of controlled tension that slid beneath his skin and sunk _deep_, down into places of his body that he'd rather _not_ think about right then. To his horror, something flopped then flipped in his chest, and he felt a not unpleasant clenching sensation twist low in his gut.

Casey's breath smelled of spaghetti sauce and garlic; it was warm against his lips as the big man continued to tilt towards him. Chuck leaned away. Casey's thigh settled against his - insistent, firm - and Chuck felt his eyes flutter shut.

Casey's mouth was pressed to his, hot and wet. Chuck tasted the maleness of him and felt the domineering force of the kiss, though it was less a kiss than it was a campaign. It was something closer to a blitzkrieg, if he really thought about it, designed to break down defenses and _take_. Chuck made a noise of protest and spread his hands over Casey's chest. He _pushed_. Casey didn't budge. Instead he massaged the corners of Chuck's mouth with the pads of his thumbs, coaxing him to open beneath him. After a moment, with a groan that was pulled straight from his core, Chuck did.

Casey's tongue immediately slipped past his lips and moved against his own. He took a long, deep taste, slow and deliberate. Ridiculously, Chuck felt his knees begin to go weak. He sagged against Casey and when he did, the other man broke the contact and pulled away. With a small twist of kiss-bruised lips and a triumphant gleam in his blue eyes, he reached past Chuck's head and flipped off the light-switch that the younger man had been inadvertently blocking.

"Try not to faint on me just yet, Bartowski," said Casey with a note of dry humor.

He moved away and Chuck was immediately pissed. He also felt foolish. "You could warn a guy, you know," he snapped, lifting his chin in a show of defiance. "I mean, I'm _new_ to this and you're...you're..." He watched as Casey's pupils dilated and as his body language changed. Within the space of the second, Chuck thought he could smell the danger fill the air. He looked away.

"I'm what?" Casey growled. He fixed Chuck with a withering glare that made him feel as if he were about 12 years old again. He was chagrined to note that Casey looked decidedly nonplussed by what had just transpired - in fact, he didn't seem affected at all. "You think I _want_ to do this, Bartowski?" he said harshly, his voice tinged with familiar anger. "I hate this more than you. But unlike you, I'm a professional - I get the job done. I expect you to do the same." He folded his arms across his chest. "So _what_ were you saying?"

"Nothing," Chuck replied. He pushed himself away from the counter. He disliked Casey's anger but it was at least familiar territory for him. "What now? Uh...sleep?"

"It's 8:30," replied Casey, mercifully allowing the change of subject, "I thought we'd watch a movie before going to bed."

Chuck couldn't help his wince. "Yeah...bed..." he repeated. _Oh god, he was supposed to sleep in the same bed as Casey!_ "What movie?" he asked.

Casey shrugged. "I picked up some nerd movie all the other idiots at Buy More said was good. _Serenity_ or something." He walked to the fridge and took out two beers. He popped the caps off and thrust one at Chuck.

"Oh, sure, _Serenity_," replied Chuck. He grinned suddenly and his lips felt swollen and bit tender. "I think you'll really like the character of Jayne Cobb."

Casey made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat and walked past him, out into the living room. "Whatever," he replied succinctly.

Chuck turned off the rest of the kitchen lights and followed him, feeling some of his nerves ease as Casey popped in the DVD and settled himself on the couch. Chuck joined him, sitting a respectable distance away. Casey grunted something and shifted a bit closer. Chuck saw the other man studying him from the corner of his eye and with some effort, he managed to keep from leaning away from Casey.

Casey looked at him a moment longer before reaching forward to pluck the DVD remote from the coffee table. He pressed play and told Chuck to turn off the lamp on the side table next to him. Chuck complied and both men were swallowed by comfortable darkness, the glow from the flatscreen the only illumination in the room. 

Part-way into the movie, after the bit where River Tam first proves that she's a lethal fighting instrument, Casey settled his elbow on the back of the couch behind Chuck's shoulders. Chuck felt the tips of Casey's thick fingers brush lightly along the back of his neck. He couldn't help but jerk away from the gentle contact, startled. Casey didn't say a thing, but suddenly his fingers were clamped down around the nape of Chuck's neck like a vice, holding him still. Casey took a sip of his beer and continued watching the movie.

Chuck tried to resume watching the movie, too - _Serenity_ was one of his favorites after all - but all he could concentrate on was the weight of Casey's palm flush to his skin, fingers curled firmly around his neck. He took a long swallow of beer - liquid courage. Slowly, Casey relaxed his grip and began to rub small circles with the pad of his thumb, softly across the skin near the nape of Chuck's neck. It was almost an absent gesture - it was the type of thing one might do to their boyfriend if they were watching a movie together.

Just like them. And surprisingly, it wasn't..._unpleasant_, either.

Chuck could feel some of the tension ebb from his body and he managed to turn his attention back to the movie. He relaxed, sinking back into the couch; sinking closer to Casey's warmth. 

When the movie was done, Casey stretched, removing his hand and in turn, removing the warmth that Chuck realized he'd actually snuggled into a bit. The other man clicked off the DVD player and the room was cast into complete darkness.

"So..." said Chuck, his voice sounding oddly strained even to him, "What did you think?"

He heard Casey grunt something, before he cleared his throat. "I'd like to have a beer with Jayne Cobb."

Chuck grinned in the darkness. "I knew you'd like him," He sounded smug. He felt the couch rise as Casey stood up, but Chuck remained sitting for a moment longer, leaning his head back and enjoying the moment of relaxation.

"C'mon," said Casey gruffly, disrupting the silence. Chuck could hear him moving through the room with confidence and, even in the dark, disturbing nothing. "Time for bed, Bartowski."

All of Chuck's anxiety came rushing back at the mention of 'bed'.

Suddenly, Casey spoke from directly in front of him, causing Chuck to jump. "Don't worry," he said. Chuck could hear the sarcasm slide along the agent's tongue. "I don't bite on the first date."

Chuck might have whimpered in reply, but he didn't have time to think about it because Casey was hauling him up by the arm and walking him down the hall - towards the bedroom. 


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **This chapter ended up with character study, emotional resonance, and an unexpected ending. So I hope you guys don't mind a little development here, a brief lick of humor there, and sweetness rolled between the words.

**The Art of Kissing John Casey – Part Three**

The trip up the stairs and down the hallway seemed insufferably long. Chuck didn't fight Casey as he was steered down the hall, but he _did_ babble - an endless stream of nonsense, apparently some sort of weird survival instinct - as the bedroom loomed closer and closer. He couldn't help it. His nerves were twined in Byzantine knots too complex to untangle. He wasn't sure of where to begin, anyhow. All he was sure of was that he was expected to stay and sleep with Casey in the same bed.

"Morgan and I used to have sleepovers," he commented, hyper-aware of how rough Casey's hand felt gripped around his wrist. "Similar to this, except for this part," he continued with a hollow, nervous laugh. The amount of power Chuck could feel in the curl of Casey's fingers alone was disconcerting. "We'd stay up and pound Red Bull and play videogames," he resumed, filling the spaces between his discomfort with the sound of his voice.

Lost in the comfortable ramble of his own one-sided conversation, Chuck missed Casey's sigh - the noise sounding like it was dredged up from the distant past.

Suddenly, Chuck felt his wrist released and he was unceremoniously pushed back against the wall. Casey stood before him, large and foreboding. His hands were braced on either side of Chuck's head to box him in. The agent's blue eyes bored into his, flinty and inscrutable. Once again Chuck was assailed by Casey's scent - he could almost _taste_ him beneath his tongue as he remembered all too vividly the kiss they shared in the kitchen.

"Bartowski," Casey growled, his voice a low burr that Chuck felt roll down the length of his spine. "Shut up for a moment."

Chuck shut up, though he regarded Casey with an expression that while uncertain, bordered dangerously on defiant. The wall was hard and unyielding against his back. A distant part of him wished that he were Kitty Pryde, so that he could phase through it and escape the gravitas in Casey's gaze. (Morgan would argue that Phantom Girl was the first superhero to possess the ability to turn intangible, and was therefore ultimately better. Here Chuck would disagree. He'd argue that Shadowcat's popularity alone stood testament to her excellence - therefore outright _trumping_ Phantom Girl.)

It'd dissolve into a Marvel vs. DC argument, one that always boiled down to: Batman trumps _all._

"Chuck!"

Chuck was yanked from his reverie by the snap of Casey's voice in his ears. He focused on the man looming before him, blinking a few times as if to clear the maze of random thoughts that had waylaid him. Casey was staring at him with a hard expression, a deep "v" creased between his eyebrows in perfect compliment to the frown that turned the corners of his mouth downward. Chuck realized that once again, mere inches separated him from the NSA agent.

"Did you, uh," he hedged, swallowing thickly, "did you just call me by my first name?"

Casey looked as if he was caught in the thick of a heated internal argument - one where he was weighing the pros and cons of hitting Chuck right then and there. "I've been talking to you, Bartowski," Casey muttered. He pushed away from the wall and took a step backwards, putting a bit of breathing space between them. "You hear anything I've said?"

Chuck hadn't and it was reflected in his expression. He could see Casey counting slowly in his head; a muscle in his jaw ticking as he rhythmically clenched and unclenched his teeth. Finally, the big man leveled a look towards him that was two parts irritation and one part resignation. "Listen, Bartowski," Casey said in a steady, practical tone. "You're going to have to get used to me touching you and being close to you, if we're going to sell this cover. Okay?"

Mutely, Chuck nodded - it made sense.

Casey stepped forward and reached out, resting his palm firmly on the curve where Chuck's shoulder met his neck. He dragged the pad of his thumb delicately across the hollow of his throat, and Chuck could feel his pulse quicken and skip beneath Casey's touch. His heart rammed up against his ribcage wildly, the staccato thump loud in his ears. When Casey spoke again his voice was a bare murmur, so quiet that Chuck might not have heard it had he not been so close to the other man. "I won't hurt you," Casey said. "You don't have to be so afraid of me."

A long moment of silence dragged between them as Chuck tried to process the other man's words. The air was charged, riddled with a strange sort of tension that seemed ready to crumble at the slightest misstep. "Okay," said Chuck, finally. He released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Okay," he repeated, more or less to reassure himself. "Though," he added with a shaky sort of laugh, "you might have said this before you...before we...uh..."

"...kissed?" Casey finished for him. There was a note of subtle humor wrapped around the word that surprised Chuck. Casey leaned forward, so close that his next words ghosted warmly across Chuck's lips. "I would've, but the look on your face was worth it, Bartowski."

As Casey drew back, the tension that was wound between them severed. The moment passed, leaving Chuck's head feeling muzzy. "Hey, thanks for easing me into this, buddy," he muttered with a dour look.

The agent smirked before resuming his business-like demeanor. "Get ready for bed - I'm going to go take a shower."

"Really?" Chuck asked curiously, pushing himself from the wall. "I always pegged you for the type to shower in the morning."

Casey arched a brow. "Think about me in the shower often, Bartowski?" He followed the statement with a faint grin that skittered across his features, before fading away like an afterthought.

Chuck didn't dignify the taunt with an answer, though he watched thoughtfully as Casey disappeared into the bathroom. He cast a puzzled glance towards the closed door and headed into the bedroom.

Casey's sheets smelled like Tide - a clean, fresh scent that surrounded Chuck as he lay stiffly atop the covers and waited for the agent to be finished with his shower. He folded his arms behind his head, stitching his fingers together in a weave of knuckle and flesh and let his mind wander. He mulled over what Ellie and Awesome would say if they found out that he wasn't in fact at Morgan's, but was instead playing house with Casey just across the courtyard. Hell, he thought about what _Morgan_ would say if he knew Chuck was lying in his boxers and his old Batman t-shirt on John Casey's bed.

He'd probably ask if Chuck had a death wish, which he didn't. Ever since getting the Intersect in his brain, however, life had seemed to want to test that theory at every turn. Chuck looked around the austere room. It was sparsely decorated and only managed to reinforce the fact that he was in Casey's room, lying on Casey's bed…in his boxer shorts. He groaned: Case and point supporting the whole 'death wish' theory.

Inevitably, his thoughts turned to the kiss.

Chuck unconsciously licked his lips. Kissing Casey was not like kissing Sarah - not at all. It was...well, for one, it wasn't gentle. No, it'd been overwhelming - he'd been dominated completely by the taste and sensation of the other man. It'd been forceful, like Casey had been imprinting his essence into Chuck's lips and onto his skin. He could still feel Casey's fingertips spread along his jaw, behind his neck, ten-points of heat that burrowed to the bone and _lingered_. The kiss had been a battle- feints and jabs and absolutely no forfeit in sight.

And strangely, it had been less awkward than every time he'd kissed Sarah.

Casey _took_. There was only the barest hint of giving. Once Chuck had gotten over the initial shock of kissing Casey - kissing a _man_ - it'd been easy to let Casey sweep him along. It'd been easy to let him control the tide of the fight. It'd been easy to let him raid his senses, deluge all thought - hell, Chuck hadn't even been _able_ to think while Casey's mouth was on his.

It wasn't like with Sarah, where there was an over-abundance of thinking - of questioning what was real and what was not. There was no painfully awkward fumbling with hands, no bumped noses, and no teeth clashing harshly together. He'd succumbed easily to Casey's control and let him lead the campaign - let him win the scrimmage.

Not that he'd honestly had much of a choice in the matter - Casey's battle tactics were undeniably harsh, aggressive…persuasive. The way his mouth had fit to his - all lips, and heat, and tongue exploring, darting, daring - had literally made Chuck go weak in the knees. Chuck closed his eyes and tasted Casey in the back of his throat, a whiskey burn of uncompromising maleness that seemed unique and volatile.

An interested twitch in his boxers made Chuck come crashing back to reality. He had _not_ just been thinking that it'd been..._nice_ to kiss John Casey. Or hot.

Chuck groaned and tried to smother himself with one of the pillows on the bed. It hadn't even been twenty-four hours since receiving this mission and already it was fucking with his head - and with his sexual identity. And of course, Casey wasn't making it any easier.

"It's just a job," he muttered, vaguely in the direction of his traitorous cock. "It doesn't mean anything." He pressed his hands harder against the pillow across his face. He tried not to notice how silky the pillowcase felt beneath his palms.

"If you want to suffocate yourself you're going to have apply more pressure over your nose and mouth."

Chuck made a muffled, frustrated noise and yanked the pillow from his face. He sat up grumpily, hair a holy mess, and glanced at Casey as the big man padded into his room. Casey wore nothing but a towel wrapped low-slung on his hips, thoughtlessly displaying a runway of pale, muscled torso. Chuck could see the interplay of muscle bunch and roll as the agent stalked over to the dresser, his eyes trailing over an interesting tapestry of faded scars the crossed Casey's skin in various places. Casey dropped the towel as he fished out a pair of white boxer shorts and Chuck immediately averted his eyes, feeling his pulse skip and stutter to an impossibly fast tempo.

"Like something you see?" Though obviously a question, Chuck held the sneaking suspicion that Casey wasn't really asking. He rolled his eyes and risked a glance back, his gaze instantly picking out a bead of water as it made a long, meandering journey down the length of Casey's back.

"Hardly," he replied, hoping to sound unaffected. Casey grunted something and Chuck sat up a little straighter. "Most people just, y'know, have a sense of propriety," he added as Casey came round the bed to stare down at him. The other man's expression didn't reflect anything other than measured indifference. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Chuck asked, "What?"

"Move over- that's my side," Casey replied, blandly. Chuck moved over and slipped beneath the covers, trying discreetly to keep his nerves in check by smoothing his fingers across the comforter. Casey slid beneath the sheets, his thigh sliding along his as he adjusted his body beneath the covers, causing Chuck to jump slightly. Casey glanced at him, his lips pressing briefly into a thin line before he turned off the light. "I usually sleep naked, so count yourself lucky."

Chuck heard Casey roll over with a dry chuckle. "Don't go wandering around, either. I would hate to mistake you for an intruder and have to shoot you."

"I take it you don't have many sleepovers then?" asked Chuck somewhat peevishly, as he squirmed around and tried to put some space between him and Casey - room enough so he couldn't feel the damp heat rising from the other man's skin. He succeeded only by rolling himself to the very edge of the bed.

"No," said Casey. "And if you don't quit moving, I'll handcuff you to the headboard."

Chuck stilled. He was fairly sure Casey would make due on his threat. He lay for a moment in the darkness, listening to the steady rise and fall of Casey's breath. He sighed and screwed his eyes shut, trying to force the tension from his body enough to settle into sleep. He managed to drift off after awhile into an uneasy rest, his dreams rising up to swallow him almost as soon as he dropped completely off the steepest side of consciousness.

_Flashes of colors, splashes of sound, a phonograph speeding up and slowing down in jarring momentum._

Jitterbug tempo swayed to a slow, sticky drumbeat of tribal mate-claiming, the dance of heavy feet. Bangles chime in off-key accompaniment.

Shift. Slow thud-pause-thud of a heartbeat, womb echo, vibrating through the apex of his body in steady countermeasure. Pared down, stripped away - lost - his own heart thumps like hands slapping the tightly stretched skin of a drum. Alone, alone, alone.

Chuck dreamed, his eyes shifting madly behind heavy lids. He hadn't always dreamed like this. He used to dream lucidly He used to dream of things wondrous and of things nightmarish, but not like _this_. Not like before the Intersect had begun to seep into every corner of his mind, synapses misfiring. Images drifted to the surface from deep within his subconscious to pierce the membrane of his identity - unbidden - while he slept. The Intersect was settling itself more firmly into his mind, everyday.

And in the process Chuck was losing himself.

_A flash of thick fingers, moving, always moving, never stopping, red beneath the fingernails - wet._

Fractals expand, contract, geometric patterns between petals of flowers, so bright blue in a field of green. Lapis lazuli - mother's favorite. The flowers dance to wind-song, conducted by sylph fingers plucking chords in whimsy. No sense to this pattern, just lines crossing, leylines of the palm tell him nothing.

Gunpowder on a table, gun in the hand, bullet to the brain, grey matter on the floor.

Chuck fisted his hands in the sheets. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead by a layer of sweat that made his shirt wet. The fabric clung to his skin. His skin glistened with perspiration.

The images never stopped. He could never escape them. They hounded him in his dreams, turning the most mundane scene into a flash flood of information he never wanted to know. The pictures melted with his own memories, making it hard to distinguish where he ended and the Intersect began.

Chuck's palms were slick; a moan was trapped somewhere in his throat.

He was beginning to lose himself in it - the Intersect, the images, the ever-widening influx of information – the borders between him and the data he stored were fading and shifting, perhaps irreparably.

_Skin and muscle, shards of bone, jutting from rubble in apocalyptic scene. Smoke twists in the air -_

A hand was on Chuck's forehead, large and cool. Strong fingers smoothed back his hair and dragged along his scalp. He felt them graze lightly over his eyelids, pinpoints of pressure that were reassuring. A voice, quiet and rough, whispered, "Shh," against his ear. Chuck stilled beneath the touch; his mind whirred and clicked.

_- the smell of decay, the clink of chains dragging in metallic rasp through crabgrass. Somewhere distant, the strains of a guitar play. Jazz...brass-heavy trumpet and powerful lungs...crawfish..._

Chuck felt arms fold around him, steel bands encased by skin and flesh. The voice is back, distant and disembodied to his sleeping ears. "Shh," it burrs again. The noise is warm against his temple. His dreams shifted, tumbled, and then his mind went blank.

Chuck relaxed, sinking back into the comfort and into the warmth.

_A chasm of endless black, down the rabbit hole he tumbles, wristwatch tracking heartbeat and time…lips moving over his own._

Stillness.

Chuck slept.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **This is by far my favorite chapter yet! It has the poetry as promised – I got so caught up in reading Octavio's poems while writing this, lol. UNF, such sexy poetry. Anyhow, apologies for the delay and please enjoy!

**P.S. – **I can't thank you guys enough for the amazing and supportive reviews. It always makes my day to hear what you guys think.

**The Art of Kissing John Casey –Part Four**

Chuck awoke when the blankets were yanked off of him, accompanied by an abrupt, loud bark. "Get up, Bartowski, you're going to be late," fell on his ears. Cool air quickly replaced the cocoon warmth of the blanket, and swept over him with the same effect as a glass of cold water to the face – almost.

"Ngh," said Chuck drowsily, his brain slow to catch up with him as he rolled over and presented Casey with a view of his back. A second later he felt a hand clamp down over his ankle and suddenly, he was staring up at Casey from the vicinity of the floor in a mixture of shock and mild confusion.

Casey in turn, glowered down at him before turning away. "Get up," he grumbled, tossing a disparaging glance over one broad shoulder. "Breakfast is in twenty minutes." Before Chuck could answer, Casey strode off briskly down the hallway.

Belatedly, he realized that Casey was fully dressed, fully groomed, and apparently in his usual ill temper. "Great," Chuck muttered. He twisted around and glanced at the clock by the nightstand. His eyes widened. With an unbelieving groan, he flopped back down on the carpeted floor with a soft _thump_. It was six - six_A-freaking-M_. Work was at eight am. Chuck pulled his fingers through his hair. "This is unconscionable," he groused to the empty room. "This is abuse."

"BARTOWSKI!" yelled Casey from somewhere downstairs. "GET UP!"

Chuck felt compelled to argue, but abandoned the urge at the last moment. He could _not_ deal with the six am wrath of John Casey right now – at least not before his shower. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, pushing himself up from the floor. Chuck stood and stretched, then, with a faintly wistful glance at the bed and all of its inviting comfort, shuffled off to the shower.

It figured that Casey didn't understand the allure of sleeping in until a reasonable hour. Then again, Chuck's dealings with Casey were hardly reasonable to begin with, at least by normal standards.

**-VVV-**

Chuck stood beneath the shower nozzle and let the warm water sluice over his body as he slowly tried to wake up. He rubbed his eyes tiredly - _six am_, that's just insane – and let the memories of the previous night trickle from the back of his mind to the front. Chuck braced his arms on the tile in front of him, and let his head hang forward. His eyes drifted shut as water rushed over his shoulders and down his back, chasing away the sleep from his skin. Wet hair framed his face in brown spikes; he cracked open an eye and watched droplets fall from the ends of his hair in steady rivulets.

_He watched as a bead of water slipped slowly down Casey's back, tracing a glistening path over pronounced dips and solid contours…_

Chuck felt himself flush with the memory, a spider web of heat – warmer than the water sloshing over him – branching through him fever-hot. He scrubbed his hands hard over his face in frustration.

"It's an assignment – an _assignment_," Chuck muttered to himself. "Just an assignment," he repeated. "Nothing more." _Right, because he was a pro at keeping fake relationships impersonal._ He felt his mouth twist into a self-deprecating grin.

Absently, Chuck reached for the body wash perched neatly on the edge of the tub. He flipped open the top and all at once, his senses were assailed by the smell of cocoa.

Chuck stared down at the bottle in his hand as if it had bitten his fingers. Casey had _Dove Clean Oil Body Wash – with Cocoa Butter scent._ Casey. _John Casey_. If the whole situation hadn't been so absurd to begin with – the fact that he was naked in Casey's shower being the prime absurdity – Chuck might've burst out laughing. For sure he'd pegged Casey as having something, well, _manlier_.

Axe for Men, maybe. Certainly not…_this_.

Chuck squeezed a little of the sweet smelling wash into his palm and inhaled a deep whiff. The scent of chocolate invaded his nose. Chuck recalled the way it smelled on Casey – rich, almost creamy, with the underlying smell of something uniquely Casey.

He felt his cock harden at the thought.

The memory continued to slide through his veins, down his throat – how Casey smelled as he crowded him against the kitchen counter. How Casey's scent had been all around him when he'd been woken – as abrupt as it had been. How he knew, that if he were to go and bury his face in one of the pillows, he'd catch Casey's scent lingering on in the fibers.

Demanding. Overwhelming. _Casey_. His hand drifted down. Without thinking, Chuck wrapped his fingers around his rigid shaft. The body wash made his palm slick and smooth; his fist enclosed it in a tight heat. He slid his fist down his length slowly, the body wash providing a hot, silky sensation.

Fuck. He was _not_ going to do this.

Chuck groaned and bit his bottom lip. He moved his hand a little faster and tried to think about something else. _Sarah!_ He could think about Sarah. The smell of cocoa butter filled the shower, steam rising to clog every one of his senses in the chocolaty scent. He jerked himself faster, pausing to rub the pad of his thumb over the head of cock. His hips twitched forward and he let out a short moan.

He couldn't bring up Sarah's face. All he could recall was the intensity in Casey's eyes, black pupils chasing out blue irises in the dim light of the hallway. All he could remember was the warmth of Casey's breath as it ghosted across his ear.

_'I won't hurt you. You don't have to be afraid of me.'_

Chuck twisted his wrist and moaned louder as he pulled on his cock just how he liked it. He wondered suddenly, what the slide of calloused palms and fingers against his cock would feel like…what kind of friction violence-roughed skin would create. He wondered how hard it would make him come.

Fuck. _Fuck._

Chuck squeezed his eyes shut. He was breathing heavily, his breath coming in short, desperate pants as his orgasm coiled in his belly. He pumped his dick quicker; closed his fist tighter. He felt his balls constrict as he plunged towards his climax, with a sort of need he hadn't felt since he'd been a horny teenager.

He remembered the feel of Casey's fingers curved around the back of his neck, so much strength thrumming just beneath the surface, drawn taut – so very _Casey_.

_Gentle, rough, the slide of calloused fingers against his skin…against his jaw…against the corners of his mouth. _

Chuck came with a long, loud moan that he tried unsuccessfully to bite back. He braced his free hand against the shower wall to hold himself up as he sagged forward, shaky, limbs loose and relaxed. The shower smelled like come and sweat and cocoa butter. It was _intoxicating_.

Chuck glanced up and saw evidence of himself splattered over the shower tile.

"Fuck," he said.

**-VVV-**

When Chuck finally made it downstairs, Casey gave him an odd look as if to say: _'I know_ exactly _what you did.'_ As if to confirm this, the NSA agent gave him a critical once-over and asked, "How was the shower?"

_Fine,'_ thought Chuck, _'if you count the fact that I've never had sexual thoughts about a man, let alone masturbated thinking about one.'_ Well, not since that one confusing dream he'd had involving Ewan McGregor, at least. Morgan had promised to take that one to the grave, though Chuck suspected he'd only agreed to avoid admitting to people he'd ever watched _Moulin Rouge_.

"Great," Chuck answered as nonchalantly as he could. "Hot," he added when Casey cast him a suspicious frown. The agent didn't reply - he only stared, his gaze digging uncomfortably beneath his skin.

After a moment Chuck looked away guiltily, though he knew he didn't really have a reason to feel that way. "So," he said, "what's for breakfast?"

He perched on one of the barstools pulled up near the kitchen counter with an expectant look.

Casey turned his back on him. He pointed to the flat griddle on the stovetop with his spatula. "Pancakes," he replied. "Figured you could eat a proper breakfast for once, instead of one of those wheat-grass hippy drinks that Devon keeps trying to feed you." He said the word 'hippy' with the utmost derision and it made Chuck smirk a little.

He took the opportunity to rib the big man because after all: revenge was always _that_ much sweeter when it came to Casey. "Aww, Casey," said Chuck with a wide-mouthed grin, "you _do_ care. Next thing I know you'll be making me breakfast in bed." Chuck batted his eyes and gave Casey his best simpering look.

Casey threw him an irritated glare, before a corner of his mouth twitched upwards ever so slightly. For John Casey, a small twist of the lips spoke volumes and Chuck read Loki-esque levels of mischief in the soft curve of his mouth. He abruptly wondered if he'd made a gross error in judgment.

"Are you planning on staying and sharing my bed with me, Bartowski?" Casey carefully and deliberately set down the spatula. Then with slow, calculated steps, he stalked over to Chuck and stepped right into his personal space.

Chuck was instantly hit by Casey's scent – that exclusive blend of chocolate and masculinity and…something he just couldn't define. Something, that was strictly _John Casey_. He flashed back to the shower, touching himself, masturbating using Casey's body wash.

"You smell nice," he blurted before he could stop himself. He saw Casey's eyes widen slightly – ha, so the big bad NSA agent _could_ be caught off guard – but before he could celebrate that discovery, Casey's voice broke through his train of thought.

"Did you brush your teeth?"

"Huh? Wha –" before Chuck had even started to form the word, Casey's mouth was on his, hot, demanding – almost violent. It was different from last time - last time was a lesson, a show of force. This time, the clash of their mouths was quick and dirty and _hot_.

Chuck fisted his hands in Casey's shirt, knuckles pressed hard into the solid flesh and muscle he felt beneath the fabric. He was hyper-aware of the roughness of Casey's hands as he pulled his fingers through Chuck's damp hair; though he was only fleetingly aware of coherent thought slipping right away, when Casey began to suck on his tongue. He tried to keep control of the situation, steady himself - push back. Casey pulled back slightly and tugged Chuck's bottom lip between his teeth.

And that was just about the sexiest thing ever, which was very strange considering that it was _Casey_ doing it.

If Chuck felt dizzy with the sensation of Casey nibbling lightly on his lip, he felt positively _unraveled_ when Casey moved his mouth to roll the lobe of Chuck's right ear between his lips. "You're so _easy_, Bartowski," Casey whispered, hot breath ghosting across moistened, sensitive skin.

Before Chuck had fully registered what he'd said, Casey pushed back from him and returned to the stove. It took a few minutes for Chuck to recover his composure, his pulse tearing rabbit-quick through his veins. His lips burned with the Casey's taste.

However, when his head finally cleared Chuck felt anger rise in him – different than the anger he'd felt last night. Different than the explosion of nerves and temper that had flooded him, right after the first kiss Casey had forced on him. This time he felt...used.

"You've got to _stop that_," Chuck bit out in a tight voice. Casey looked back at him, idly, but something must have shown in his expression because the NSA agent turned to regard him fully. He gave Chuck his complete attention, though he could tell Casey was mentally tensing – Chuck saw the exact moment Casey shut down. It was as if a steel wall slammed down over the agent's features. His expression became cool and blank.

"Stop _what_, Bartowski?" Casey's voice held a dangerous edge. Chuck stood his ground.

"_This_!" Chuck said in exasperation, half-rising out of his seat to gesture between the two of them. "You can't just keep, you know, _assaulting_ me like this."

He must've hit a trigger, because in two steps the big man was nose-to-nose with him. Casey's expression was carved into a rigid veneer of cold fury that Chuck felt bore into him, inch by inch. The intensity of the look shivered down his spine and made the fine hairs on his arms stand in alarm. "We have a job to do. I'm taking this very seriously," Casey said in a flat, dead voice. "I am doing – and will do – everything I can to prepare you for this. Whether you want to be a slack-jawed idiot about it is your own business."

"I _am_ taking this seriously, if you hadn't noticed," Chuck replied, keeping his voice as even as he could manage. "I didn't try to push you away - I even agreed to come and spend the night with you. In your _bed_. If I wasn't going to take it seriously, I wouldn't be here and I'd let you grope Cole Barker all you wanted."

Casey snorted and took a step back, giving Chuck some space. "Then _what_ is it you want?" he ground out, familiar anger bleeding through his icy demeanor. He folded his arms across his chest and waited with an impatience Chuck could almost see curl from his skin like steam.

Chuck finally looked away, though his jaw was set stubbornly. "It's just...you could be _nicer_ in your approach or something."

"What, do you want _romance_, Bartowski?" Casey scoffed as if the whole idea of being the slightest bit romantic was ludicrous.

"Yeah, well, _maybe_," Chuck replied in a clearly obstinate tone. He looked back at Casey. He was prepared for the sneer written plainly across the agent's face, but he found he was unprepared for the sting of hurt it caused.

"Unbelievable," Casey muttered. He turned his back and went to the stove. He stared at the mixing bowl full of pancake batter as if considering something – shady NSA secrets for all Chuck knew or cared at that point – and then without warning tossed the whole batch into the sink. "I need to check in with Beckman," he snapped suddenly. "Be ready to leave at 0730 hours." He disappeared upstairs and Chuck was left to find breakfast for himself.

Chuck found his appetite had disappeared, however, when he glanced into the kitchen sink to see if any of the batter was salvageable.

**-VVV-**

"So dude, like what's going on with you and Casey?"

Morgan's question caught Chuck off-guard and he stood up quickly, his cheeks flushing with high color in the space of a minute. "What? Wh-why would you say that?" He forced a laugh, which only caused the shorter man to raise both eyebrows dubiously.

"Ookay then," Morgan said. He pointed indiscreetly to Chuck's left. "The big dude's been glaring at you all day. It's really kinda freaky." Chuck followed Morgan's line of sight and saw Casey standing across the store. The agent was standing to one side as a customer yammered at him, though for the most part he seemed to be ignoring her. Chuck swallowed, his throat suddenly dry: Casey was staring straight at him. Casey's gaze was burning, heated enough that Chuck felt the force of it like a blast of desert air across the back of his neck. When Casey finally broke his stare and looked back at the customer, Chuck was surprised that the woman wasn't incinerated on the spot.

"Did it just get hot in here?" Chuck muttered. He wiped his palm across the back of his neck; his skin prickled uncomfortably beneath his clothing.

Morgan gave him a strange look. "Um, no, I actually thought it was chilly..." he trailed off for a second, distracted by Anna as she waltzed by with a wink and a bounce of her dark pigtails. Morgan looked back at Chuck with a lazy grin. "So, did you two have a fight or something?"

"Fight?" repeated Chuck with a nervous laugh. He shifted his eyes back to Casey and was relieved to see that the NSA agent was engaged in a heated debate with the woman. He was probably going to sell another Beast Master Deluxe Double Down Package today – Big Mike would be thrilled. _Nobody_ sold the Beast Master Deluxe Double Down Package, unless of course you were John Casey. Morgan cleared his throat noisily and Chuck looked back at his best friend quickly.

"Um, nope - no fight," said Chuck. "Why would we fight? We have nothing to fight about." He was about to say more when his cell phone vibrated. He fished out the phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. _Damn it._ "Hey, listen buddy," said Chuck with a imploring smile, "I'm gonna take a quick break. Cover for me?"

Morgan looked at Chuck and sunk back into one of the chairs at the Nerd Herder desk. He threaded his fingers behind his head and propped up his feet, accidentally smashing the heels of his shoes down on one of the keyboards. The sound of flattened plastic made Chuck wince. "Of course, man. I've always got your back," Morgan assured. He leaned towards Chuck and dropped his voice conspiratorially. "Need me to run interference?" He tilted his head slightly towards Casey with a knowing nod.

_Not unless you want an arm broken,'_ Chuck thought. "Nope that won't be necessary," he replied hurriedly. He darted off and made his way to the Home Theatre room as inconspicuously as possible. A moment later, the door opened and Casey strode in, pausing only to snick the lock shut behind him.

Chuck opened his mouth to say something and was cut off immediately. "Shut it, Bartowski, I don't want to hear it," Casey grunted. "Oh and don't say a word, you hear?" The agent turned towards the big flat screen that dominated the room, and hit a button combination on the remote. A second later, General Beckman's image flickered to life onscreen.

"Gentlemen," she greeted with a curt nod of her head. She looked towards Casey. "How goes preparation for the mission, Major Casey?"

Casey glanced at Chuck, but there was none of the scorn that Chuck expected to see in his gaze. Instead, the agent's expression was carefully neutral. "It's going," Casey paused as if considering the proper choice of words, "as well as can be expected, General. Bartowski isn't the greatest student, but he can be taught."

Chuck was insulted. 'Not the greatest student?' Hell, technically he wasn't even a _spy_. He piped up before he could stop himself. "Well, I mean - in my defense - I've never y'know...done _this_." Casey shot him a withering glare. General Beckman tilted her head inquisitively.

"What do you mean, Mr. Bartowski?" she asked. At Chuck's blank look, her mouth pressed into a thin, hard line. "What do you mean by _this_?" she clarified, enunciating each word slowly as if Chuck were unremittingly slow-witted.

"You know what?" he said, holding up his hands in defense. "Never mind. It doesn't matter." He was already regretting having said anything at all, when the General's mouth pulled down into a severe frown.

"I see. Well, Mr. Bartowski, there is still time to back out. Consider yourself lucky that you even have this option," she added, her frown deepening. "But considering this would be the longest mission you will have had away from home base, I will give you twenty four hours to consider whether or not you have the chops necessary to _successfully_ complete your task. I will await your answer tomorrow. Should you decide that this is too much for you to handle, I will call in Agent Barker. "

General Beckman's expression became inscrutable as she leaned forward and shifted her gaze between Chuck and Casey. Her eyes narrowed. "This mission is _very_ important to the NSA and the CIA. The information that our asset has is vital to us - and to the war with Fulcrum. We will get it either way." She paused to flash a grisly image on the screen. Chuck flinched back from it, his stomach turning instantly. Next to him, he heard Casey's quick intake of breath. "And if _you_, Mr. Bartowski," continued the General, "cannot do this, you _will_ tell me tomorrow." She sat back in her seat. The image disappeared from the screen. "If you say you can complete the mission and fail, there will be consequences - ones that you will _not_ like."

Without a further word, General Beckman cut the feed and the screen went black.

"Good going, Bartowski," snarled Casey, rounding on him suddenly. "What part of _don't say a word_ did you not understand?"

"Look, it's not my fault that you're such a brute about everything," Chuck shot back as Casey advanced on him. "Not everything is as easy for me as it is for you - I can't _not_ separate myself from my emotions. I'm not some unfeeling Japanese autonomous _robot_."

Casey stopped dead in his tracks. Chuck braced himself, sure that the agent was about to hit him. Casey didn't hit him. Instead, he simply walked around Chuck, unlocked the door, and stomped out without offering one single word, remark, or rude comment.

Chuck didn't watch him go. He didn't move. He didn't do anything for a long, tense moment.

He'd seen the briefest flash of something in Casey's eyes – something distressing.

He'd seen the quick flash of hurt within Casey's expression when he'd called him a robot.

**-VVV-**

Dinner was a painfully silent affair and again, Chuck was spending the night with Casey - this time with Ellie and Devon's knowledge. He'd gotten a surprise when he'd come home from work: apparently a pipe had burst in his room, flooding it and making it temporarily uninhabitable. Oddly, none of his electronics or important items had been ruined - just the carpet and a pair of red Converse All-Star high tops. In truth, he was more chapped about the high tops than he was about the carpet.

The carpet could be replaced, hopefully with something he liked. The high tops though...he hadn't seen Converse All-Stars like _those_ since 1998.

Of course, just as Ellie was fretting about where he could stay - she'd developed something of a complex about people sleeping on her couch ever since the Morgan debacle - Casey had come over and offered Chuck his spare room. It was a perfect cover, especially since the insurance company had advised it would take about a week for the damage to be assessed and repaired.

Meanwhile, most of his clothing smelled like sewage.

"Did you have to flood my room?" Chuck asked sullenly. He chased a piece of broccoli around on his plate with disinterest, before risking a glance at Casey.

"There are worse things I could've done, trust me," Casey replied shortly. He licked his thumb and turned the page on the Newsweek he was reading, ignoring Chuck completely. Chuck might as well not have been there for all that Casey had spoken to him so far.

Chuck sighed. He was in for a long night.

**-VVV-**

After cleaning up and washing the dishes - also done in silence - Chuck settled on the couch and wiled away his time watching TV as Casey began to disassemble and clean a vast amount of weaponry. He did so with a sort of tender care and precise efficiency that even Chuck could appreciate. He tried to ask a few questions like he usually did on their Sunday afternoons in Castle, but Casey wasn't playing the game.

After unsuccessfully attempting to engage the NSA agent in a conversation that consisted of more than mere grunts, monosyllabic answers, and offhanded gestures, Chuck gave up.

He shot Casey a sour glance and swiped a book off of the coffee table, instead. He read the title: The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. He flung a curious look at Casey, but the agent wasn't looking at him. He was cleaning out the barrel of a Glock with a pipe cleaner, an expression of intense concentration pasted across his features

Chuck opened to the first page.

He was asleep within minutes.

**-VVV-**

Chuck woke in the semi-darkness, to the slide of rough fingers over the curve of his cheek.  
He opened his eyes and saw Casey leaning over him, a chiaroscuro figure of shadow and dim light. Casey took the book from Chuck's hands and placed it carefully on the coffee table. His eyes were intense, pupils blown out in the half-dark as he leaned down towards Chuck.

"Casey, what are you doing?" Chuck asked sleepily. His voice sounded hushed, almost eerie in the stillness, the silence. Casey didn't reply. Chuck's heart began to lurch towards a staccato roll of thumps and beats – and quickened even more when Casey pressed a kiss to the underside of his wrist. Then Casey spoke, words dripping from his tongue to slide over Chuck's skin; liquid sensuality entwined in speech.

And Chuck was helpless to do anything but listen – to the sound his heart, his breath, and to the fluidity of Casey's voice.

"_Mis manos_," Casey whispered, his voice low and whiskey-rough, "_abren las cortinas de tu ser_." Casey's lips stitched the words against Chuck's skin as he shifted to lay a kiss inside the crook of his arm. Chuck's breath hitched, his body became flushed with impossible heat. He wanted to say something - anything - but his tongue felt thick in his mouth, incapable of forming anything resembling a coherent word.

He continued to listen.

Casey shifted and curved over him, one knee between Chuck's as he leaned forward. The agent's scent surrounded him. "_te visten con otra desnudez_," Casey murmured, his lips tracing a warm trail up his arm as he moved to kiss Chuck's shoulder.

The usual roughness of Casey's tone was smoothed around the edges by flowing cadence. It made his voice unbelievably provocative. Casey's lips dusted across Chuck's collarbone as he slid the pads of his fingers up Chuck's side. He curved his large hand around Chuck's ribs and counted each one with a gentle touch of his thumb. Chuck could feel the slide of his skin on skin, rough whorls and calluses scraping delicately over bone and flesh. He shivered. Casey sucked lightly on his collarbone.

_"descubren los cuerpos de tu cuerpo,"_ Casey slid his hands beneath Chuck's shoulders, palms hot on his skin. He slid them between his shoulder blades, pressing in, pushing up. When Casey kissed the corner of Chuck's mouth, he was lost. He turned his head and offered his mouth to Casey willingly. This time when Casey kissed him, it was slow, languorous and dripping with a kind of sensualism Chuck was sure he'd never experienced.

"_Mis manos_," whispered Casey against his lips, "_inventan otro cuerpo a tu cuerpo."_

Casey brought his mouth down on Chuck's again, in another long, slow caress of lips and tongue. Chuck drank the taste of him, pulled it deep within him. Time seemed to pass in a shift of alternating currents: fast and slow; meandering and dizzying. His hands were on Casey's back, on his shoulders, in his hair. He twisted up into the solid bulk leaned over him, the connection of their mouths not enough. All of it felt new, thrilling, like the first time he'd groped a girl in the shadows of the bleachers in high school. He moaned; Casey dragged the tips of his fingers down Chuck's side and lightly squeezed his hip.

"Casey," Chuck gasped. The noise sounded unapologetically wanting and Chuck found he just didn't care. Casey disengaged himself and stood, leaving Chuck's skin and mind buzzing with the fact that he'd just made out – quite thoroughly too – with John Casey.

Casey smirked down at him and asked in a perfectly even tone: "Romantic enough for you, Bartowski?"

Without waiting for Chuck's reply, the NSA agent turned and went upstairs to bed.

"I expect you up here in fifteen minutes, Bartowski – we've got an early start tomorrow."

Chuck lay stunned in the half-dark, body tingling, head buzzing, and wondered just what in the hell happened.

(To be continued...)

**-VVV-**

Casey's poem:

**Palpar**  
by Octavio Paz

_Mis manos  
abren las cortinas de tu ser  
te visten con otra desnudez  
descubren los cuerpos de tu cuerpo  
Mis manos  
inventan otro cuerpo a tu cuerpo _

(Translation)  
**Touch**  
by Octavio Paz

_My hands  
open the curtains of your being  
clothe you in a further nudity  
uncover the bodies of your body  
My hands  
invent another body for your body _


	5. Chapter 5

**The Art of Kissing John Casey – Part Five**  
***

Apparently Casey's idea of 'an early start' meant dragging Chuck out of bed – by the ankle yet again, he really was going to have to have a talk with him about that – at an even more unreasonable hour than the previous day, and force Chuck to go running with him.

_Running_. Outside. Before the sun had even fully risen.

If that wasn't enough, Casey had the gall to go and wear these red running shorts that made his ass look _perfect_. Between Casey's shorts and the fact that he was wheezing like a chain smoker as he lagged along behind him, Chuck had nearly stumbled into oncoming traffic and been hit by a car – _twice_.

After the third time, Casey came to an abrupt halt. Grateful, Chuck dropped into a graceless sprawl on someone's immaculately kept front lawn. He sucked in huge gulps of air; hot, sweaty, and thoroughly irritated by the whole experience. Chuck knew that people often experienced something called a "runner's high", but he was beginning to suspect it was because they were clearly insane in the first place. Who ran these days, besides anomalies of human nature like Awesome or John Casey?

Seriously, _who_?

Chuck glared up at Casey when the big man came to stand over him.

In turn Casey stared down at him, unimpressed, his hands on his hips.

"What's the problem, Bartowski?" he grunted.

Chuck's mind apparently wasn't working properly, because all he could stare at was the interesting view Casey's red shorts provided him from his lower vantage point. "Um…" he replied cleverly. Casey rolled his eyes in response. "Is this _really_ necessary?" Chuck complained, a bit petulantly. "I think I'm going to have a heart attack."

"It's all part of the training, Bartowski – my grandmother could outpace you. It's pathetic," said Casey, bluntly. He gave Chuck a critical-once over. Chuck could feel the slow sweep of Casey's eyes over his body, like the touch of feverish fingers down his back.

"Ha, ha," grumbled Chuck sarcastically. He wiped his forearm across the sweat cooling on his forehead and sighed in disgust. "I don't see how this can possibly be part of the preparation for the mission," he muttered, mostly to himself.

Suddenly, Casey dropped into a squat before him. Chuck's eyes were immediately drawn to the way his red shorts stretched and rode up teasingly on his thighs. He could see the muscles bunch beneath Casey's skin, and when he slid his gaze up slightly, Chuck saw that he had a curious half-moon scar about a hand span above his left knee. Chuck's gaze drifted up even more, lingering on the fine dusting of hairs that covered Casey's upper thigh. He wondered if he could develop telekinesis through sheer force of will (a theory he and Morgan had tried numerous times with no success) and make the hem of Casey's shorts peel back just a bit further...

"_Bartowski_." Casey's voice snapped like the crack of a whip. Chuck yanked his eyes up quickly, just in time to see Casey tilt towards him. A flush crept up his neck – dull, ruddy, _hot_ - in response, as he caught a whiff of Casey's smell: perspiration and musk. It was different than chocolate and soap, and yet still _vastly_ appealing. Casey settled his hands on Chuck's knees and held him still with a pointed look.

"You really think I'd date a skinny nerd like you, if this were real? Gotta get you into respectable shape, Bartowski," he growled. He paused, and then a corner of his mouth twitched upwards into a smirk. "You need to work on your _stamina_ if you plan on keeping up with me."

Somehow, (Chuck wasn't sure how he did it) but somehow, Casey managed to make the word, 'stamina' sound lewd. And what did he mean by: '_keeping up with me_'?

It was too early for this. It was too early to try and figure out the hidden meaning layered between Casey's words – meaning that Chuck wasn't sure was even really there.

What Chuck _was_ sure of, however, was that his body was rejecting the exercise because he felt an unexpected tightness form in his chest when Casey loomed even closer. He knew what was coming – he could feel the keenness of Casey's gaze as it washed over him. He could see the tension coil in his shoulders, like a snake readying to strike.

He was prepared this time.

This time, Chuck initiated the kiss.

He lurched forward somewhat clumsily and fit their mouths together. The kiss was as inelegant as it was sloppy, though to Chuck it felt like his world heaved and shifted dizzyingly. He heard the agent's grunt of surprise, but if John Casey was anything it was a consummate professional. He rolled with it and let Chuck set the pace, though Chuck could somehow sense that Casey was holding himself back.

"It's okay," Chuck murmured, drawing back slightly, his words ghosting hotly across the other man's mouth. Chuck didn't know if he was saying it to reassure himself or Casey. "It's okay," he repeated, more firmly.

Chuck felt an intense thrill of excitement bolt through him. Casey's eyes darkened – they were in public, anyone could see – and he was pushed back roughly. He let Casey take control, mildly wondering when and where he began to find domination such a turn-on. The grass flattened beneath the press of his body, scratchy against his neck. The ground was solid and firm against his spine and shoulder blades, as Casey pressed him back.

Chuck was hard – he knew Casey felt it as he settled a knee between his legs and rubbed lightly, providing the barest of friction. That _bastard_. Chuck had no doubt that Casey knew _exactly_ what he was doing. "Easy, Bartowski," Casey growled against his mouth, "or you might give me the impression that you actually _like_ this."

Any protest Chuck might have had at that point was swallowed as Casey kissed him aggressively. Really though, his protests were growing weaker and weaker the longer he spent in Casey's presence. It was hard to run from the truth that loomed before him: he _did_ enjoy this. He _liked_ kissing Casey. On some level it felt...well, _right_

Chuck curled his fingers around the agent's upper arms to anchor himself as the ground beneath him dropped away. He lost himself in Casey's flavor, in the texture of his skin beneath his fingertips; in the solid bands of muscle shifting beneath his palms. He liked the feel of the other man's muscles beneath his hands, the interplay, the roll and shift. It was safe. Strong. It was entirely _Casey._

Casey's hand began wandering towards precarious zones; zones that Chuck was fairly certain he wanted him to explore, when there was the sharp crack of something breaking behind him. A scandalized and startled exclamation of, "OH MY!" rent the air.

Casey's head snapped up. His hands ceased their southerly journey, much to Chuck's disappointment. Not that he'd admit it, at least no aloud. He pushed himself up onto one elbow and twisted around.

A startled housewife – he guessed around 35 or so – stood in her bathrobe on her stoop, staring at them in absolute shock. Her mouth hung slightly open as she drank in the sight of the two of them. (To be honest, Chuck couldn't blame her.) A broken coffee mug lay shattered in pieces on the steps below her, steam rising off the concrete as the hot liquid soaked into the ground.

"Um, hello," greeted Chuck with an apologetic smile. "Nice, err, nice weather today," he added. The woman shifted her gaze and focused solely upon him, and the look she gave Chuck was somewhat troubled, like he had just addressed her in Kryptonian. (A voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Morgan's, promptly reminded him that the correct term for the language on the planet Krypton was 'Kryptonese'.) Chuck almost laughed; nerves, embarrassment, and the absurdity of the situation quickly stealing all good sense.

The startled woman opened her mouth to interrupt him. But right then, a man appeared behind her - also in a bathrobe – and placed a hand on her shoulder, interrupting _her_ and whatever she was going to say.

He took one look at Chuck and Casey sprawled rather indecently on the ground, adjusted his glasses, and scrutinized them with a deep frown pulling the corners of his mouth downwards. He moved around the woman - his wife, presumably - and his eyes bulged. "Get off my fucking lawn! Can't you even read the sign?" The man gestured angrily towards a small, hand-painted sign not two feet away from Chuck which read: _Please refrain from stepping on the grass._

Oh.

Casey stood and hauled Chuck up with him. Chuck took one look at the agent's face and felt a brief spike of panic shoot through him: Casey's expression was flat and placid, almost too serene. It was the type of expression the agent assumed when he was cataloging the numerous different ways he could efficiently kill someone and hide the body. Chuck stepped off the grass and yanked on Casey's arm.

"Let's get back to our run, okay buddy?" he said nervously. When Casey didn't budge, Chuck pulled harder. "Casey, come _on_!" he hissed. After a further moment of contemplation, Casey turned away from the house and jerked his arm out of Chuck's grasp. He snarled out something that Chuck didn't catch and jogged ahead at a fast clip.

Chuck, with a hasty and apologetic wave, loped off after Casey.

**-VVV-**

Chuck came to a stop by the fountain in the courtyard and bent double, hands on his knees, chest heaving. He thought for sure he was dying this time – Casey had all but sprinted back to the apartment like he was the Flash or something. Chuck had done his best to catch up, but after about a quarter mile he'd fallen back and lost sight of the NSA agent.

He arrived to see Casey leaning against the door, waiting for him with his arms folded across his broad chest. Chuck was mildly annoyed to note that Casey didn't look the least bit out of breath. Mostly though, he was just relieved to be home. He figured he'd probably have some time to curl up back in bed and sleep for a while longer, since Casey had seen fit to drag him from bed at the crack of dawn.

It was a pleasant thought.

Casey looked at his watch. "It's about time, Bartowski. I was beginning to think you'd collapsed along the road somewhere."

Any pleasant thoughts Chuck had been having evaporated immediately. He shot Casey a nasty look. "Well naturally, Casey. I was hoping you'd give me CPR so we could alienate some more nice people going out to get their morning paper."

Chuck expected Casey to say any number of things in reply, but what he didn't expect was for him to fix him with a leer and growl out, "If you want to kiss me again _that_ badly, Bartowski, all you have to do is ask."

To that Chuck didn't have any sort of scathing remark at hand, because yes, he really _did_ want to kiss Casey again. Preferably soon. Casey must've seen something in his expression, because his body language changed subtly, became more predatory. Chuck likened it to the sinuous tensing of a cat about to pounce.

He licked his lips, anticipation twitching through him. Suddenly, he felt reckless. He chalked it up to a latent "runner's high" or some similar effect where too much oxygen in the brain made people stupid with endorphins. Either way, Chuck couldn't say exactly what possessed him to take a step towards Casey and respond in a challenging tone: "And what if I _am_ asking?"

Chuck saw something flare across Casey's face; something he was positive he wasn't supposed to see. It was only a glimpse and it vanished in a blink, but all at once Chuck was a bundle of nerves and uncertainty. '_It's just an assignment,'_ he told himself for what must've been about the hundredth time in three days. As he and Casey regarded one another, Chuck felt the previously playful mood become infused with something powerfully significant. The feeling sparked between the space separating them, arcing through the morning air to skip along his skin.

_'This is Casey,'_ he reminded himself again, _'he doesn't think of it as anything more so why should you?_'

Casey took a step away from the door, towards him. Chuck tensed, unsure what to expect, when a voice called out and sliced through the tension humming between them like an electric current.

"Whoa, dude - you went running? Awesome!"

Chuck jumped and turned as Devon came jogging into the courtyard, wearing nothing but a pair of small running shorts, socks, sneakers, and his iPod. He looked at Chuck with a curious expression, shifting his gaze back and forth between him and Casey. Casually, he asked, "Am I..." he fixed Chuck with an uncomfortably discerning look, "am I interrupting something?" His voice was carefully neutral.

Chuck flushed guiltily for no good reason (that he'd name aloud) and his mouth split into a wide, nervous grin. It was the type of grin that made him seem _just_ shy of hysterical. He glanced towards Casey and then quickly back towards Devon. He issued a shaky laugh and waved a hand as if to say, 'Nothing to see here, nope.'

Casey grunted out something - a greeting, perhaps - and then turned and disappeared into his house, slamming the door shut behind him.

Chuck frowned.

Stupid Casey. Why did he have to be so damned…_convincing_? It was hard enough to play make-believe with Sarah, without Casey's tongue in his mouth going and turning everything on its ear. Come to think of it, he'd kissed _Casey_ more than he'd ever kissed his fake-girlfriend. And Jesus that was a depressing thought, only because It didn't bother him as much as he thought it should.

Before he could really dig himself into a nice deep pit of self-recrimination, Devon made a noise and broke him out of what had started to be a marvelous bout of Batman-like brooding. He looked up and saw the other man regarding him thoughtfully.

Chuck could tell his future brother-in-law was piecing things together in his mind. Devon was, after all, as smart as he was handsome, which was something Chuck was sure had never been said about him. Devon leaned towards him, all traces of the frat-boy demeanor wiped from his countenance as he took a quick look at Casey's door and dropped his voice en sotto voce.

"You okay? You guys didn't get in a fight or something, because that would be very un-awesome."

To be fair, Devon did sound absolutely sincere, but Chuck quickly flashed a look of annoyance, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders guardedly. He was no longer felt felt the guilt and awkwardness that had weighed him down a moment before. Instead, he was just irritated. "Why does everyone think Casey and I are fighting?" he snapped in exasperation. "Between you and Morgan…" he trailed off for a moment, then added, "…why should it _matter_?"

Devon's brows shot up and he held up both hands in a placating gesture. "Listen dude, I was just asking. No need to get so defensive on me. Just a question."

"I'm not being defensive," Chuck muttered, defensively.

"I don't know John Casey that well, but I think I know him well enough to see that he doesn't have a lot of friends or anything, y'know?" mused Devon, almost absently. "Seems like he must really like you to offer you a place to stay while your room's being worked on. Pretty awesome of him."

Chuck almost snorted. "Yeah, I suppose," he conceded, after a moment. Unexpectedly, Devon snagged an arm around his shoulders before he could step away. The other man was wet from his run and his skin was sticky. He smelled like sweat and something sharp and spicy – almost pungent.

He smelled nothing like Casey.

Chuck wrinkled his nose and extracted himself from beneath the friendly weight of Devon's arm. "I should probably go shower," he said. He looked almost imploringly towards Casey's door, willing by some sort of dormant psychic connection for the NSA agent to stick his head out and demand that he come in and shower. Or eat breakfast. Or _something_. Certainly not a 'something' that had to do with tasting salt beneath his tongue as he sucked the sweat off of Casey's neck – nope, certainly not _that_.

He realized that Devon had been talking to him and refocused quickly. "Uh, what?" he asked.

Devon gave him a peculiar look. It was a shrewd look, a knowing look, and it was a look that Chuck didn't like in the least. His face swilled out with heat, all of his confusion and guilt returning in spades. "I don't think exercise agrees with you, Chuck," said Devon after a moment, clapping a hand firmly over his arm. "It wouldn't be awesome at all if you fainted from heatstroke." He fixed him with an expression (Morgan liked to call it Devon's 'serious doctor face'), and said: "Tell John to take it easy on you."

'Like that'll ever happen,' Chuck thought. He smiled, nevertheless. "Sure, I'll tell him I can't go running anymore – doctor's orders."

He was aware of Devon's probing stare following him all the way to Casey's door.

**-VVV-**

"I don't think so, Bartowski."

Chuck cracked open one eye and peered up at Casey from where he was sprawled on his back atop the agent's bed. Chuck closed it again and ignored the other man, though his heart began to thump a bit faster when he felt Casey's hand snake around his ankle, fingers strong and solid.

"Get up," Casey grunted. Chuck could practically _feel_ the displeasure in Casey's glare like a solid weight that pinned him to the bed. "You're sweaty and you smell and there's no way I'm letting you lounge on the sheets in your squalid state."

"Squalid? I'm not squalid!" huffed Chuck, eyes flying open. He pushed himself up on one elbow and frowned at the other man. Then his mouth went inexplicably dry; Casey was still in his running clothes, looking as nonplussed as ever and decidedly more rumpled. His skin had a healthy glow about it and it again made Chuck think about licking the dried sweat from Casey's neck.

Chuck looked quickly away, and tried to divert the blood that was rapidly draining from his head into his cock on sheer willpower alone. He flopped back onto the mattress and screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to block out Casey's image. When that didn't work – the sight of Casey's ass in those stupid red shorts was fairly burnt into his mind's eye, anyway – Chuck put his hands over his face and pressed the heels of his palms harshly against eyes.

"Go away," he grumbled. "I don't need a shower yet – we still have about two hours until work!" Chuck punctuated this statement by stabbing his index and middle finger angrily into the air. "Two, Casey." He cracked open one eye and gave the big man a significant look. "Two," he repeated, as if that said it all.

Casey's face went blank. Before Chuck had even registered the belated warning in his head of: 'Danger, run!', he was being hauled up and frogmarched down the hall towards the bathroom. He twisted violently and tried to pull away, protests of: "Hey stop!" and "I'm an adult and can decide when to shower on my own _thankyouverymuch!_" falling on deaf ears. In the space a minute, Chuck found himself dumped unceremoniously into the shower, clothing and all, with the water turned on full blast.

Chuck sputtered and flailed like a drenched, extremely offended cat. Slipping and scrabbling almost comically, he finally managed to stand up in the tub – sneakers squeaking obnoxiously loud against the porcelain – and shoved a wet spike of hair from his eyes. He glared at Casey, who stared back at him unmoved.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed, irritated beyond reason by the self-satisfied smirk on Casey's face as he stood nearby with his arms folded across his chest. He looked so smug. And he looked entirely too _dry_.

"You needed a shower," came the reply.

"This isn't a shower!" Chuck argued, his voice rising along with his level of aggravation. "This is more like some _torture_ tactic they taught you in the military." He cast Casey another spiteful glare as he reached out, fingers fumbling to turn the shower off. Casey's arm suddenly shot forward and he grabbed Chuck's wrist, stopping him.

"Don't even think about it, Bartowski," he threatened lowly, in tone brushed with danger. It was a dark voice, a dangerous voice, and Chuck felt it flash over his skin like a cold, teasing breath. He shivered.

He glanced up and saw that Casey was leaning partially into the spray of water from the shower nozzle. His fingers were still closed over Chuck's wrist, tight enough that Chuck could feel the telltale ache of bruises forming. Water dripped down Casey's face, slid over his lips, gathered on his eyelashes. It rolled down his neck in rivulets, dampening the collar of his shirt.

Casey licked his lips unconsciously, drawing a bead of water between them. Chuck imagined the moisture collecting in the groove of Casey's tongue, before trickling slowly down the back of his throat.

His mouth looked very wet.

Something snapped in him then, and Chuck's momentary shock and anger morphed into something else, something craving and tangible, driving him with the need to _touch_.

Before he had time to think it through, Chuck fisted his free hand in Casey's t-shirt and pulled him towards him with all the strength he could muster. He knew he'd caught the agent off guard by Casey's startled grunt, but before anything could be said Chuck fastened his mouth to a spot just below Casey's right ear and _sucked_.

He tasted old sweat and hard water, cool against the heat of his lips. He flicked out his tongue and licked a warm stripe across Casey's jaw, skin and stubble scraping against his teeth as he bit down none-too-gently. Casey's grunt deepened into a ragged groan that pushed its way slowly up his throat. Chuck could feel the sound vibrate beneath his mouth,

The noise shivered through his body and laid a latticework of raw heat over his skin.

All at once it was too much, as if everything had suddenly become painted in achingly sharp contrast. Chuck shifted closer and felt Casey's pulse pound beneath his tongue and it was so vivid, like he could _taste_ the rhythm shifting beneath his lips with each beat and skip of the agent's heart.

He gasped when Casey suddenly released his wrist and stepped fully into the tub. His presence was overwhelming, immense. He filled every corner of Chuck's world until he was in the air, and Chuck was unable to do anything more but inhale him into his lungs. He leaned back, tile slick and hard against his back, and regarded him with a heavy-lidded gaze.

Water soaked Casey's clothing, his shoes, his socks, those goddamned _shorts_. Fabric, heavy with moisture, clung to his skin and Chuck could see each flex of the other man's muscles in acute, wet detail.

Casey's eyes were woven with something almost Gordian in its complexity, and yet it was all at once so _simple_. There, beneath labyrinthine knots of duty and protocol, was a flash of plain animalistic _need_.

It was then that Chuck recognized that this could quickly turn into a dangerous situation. Though not often, he _had_ seen Casey lose control on occasion. Standing in a wet bathtub with John Casey was as a precarious position as ever. And Casey's eyes were fever-bright. "Casey," Chuck said, his voice thick with undefined want, sudden hesitation, and the slightest bit of fear.

"Shut up, Bartowski," Casey snarled. His voice was tight and gruff, the words scraping along Chuck's skin like the edge of a dull razor. He didn't struggle when Casey pinned his wrists above his head with one large hand and pressed his body forward. Every inch of Casey was drenched...and _hard_.

The knowledge that Casey's rock-hard dick was pressed into his thigh made Chuck's cock jump from 0 to 60 in about a second. He was actually a bit surprised his cock didn't punch a hole through the front of his boxers. He moaned, unable to find the words he wanted to say, completely overcome by a an alarming tumble of emotion and wild, terrifying thoughts. All of it crashed over him and short-circuited his brain, rendering him incapable of stringing together anything that might be a useful thought. He tried to rub himself against Casey, get any sort of friction, and was stopped when the other man grabbed his chin with his free hand and tilted his face up.

In a word, the kiss was _filthy_. It was sloppy and wet, and Casey's lips moved over his in a hot slip-slide of teeth and tongue.

"What do you want, Bartowski?" Casey muttered against his mouth. "Tell me."

For a moment, Chuck didn't understand him. The concept of language seemed entirely foreign - words had no place in his world when all he wanted to do was feel every inch of Casey pressed firm and slick against him. He groaned and tried to speak, and, for a ridiculous moment, Chuck completely forgot the English language. He knew there were such things as verbs and nouns and past participles, and that they all fit together to create this thing called 'speech', but as Casey inserted a knee between his thighs, all Chuck could come up with was, "Ngghh."

"Tell me," Casey commanded, his voice harsh with something tightly constrained; dark with insinuation of what might happen if Chuck didn't comply.

"I," Chuck began, writhing pathetically when Casey began to roughly suck at a stream of water that sluiced down Chuck's neck and throat, "I-I-want, I-" He moaned helplessly, unable to think about anything except for the solid press of Casey's body against his. All he could focus on was the brush of wet skin against his, the hard shape of Casey's dick digging into his hip.

"Tell me," Casey demanded again. His words rode the jagged, deep burr of his voice and the sound of it, low and guttural, wrapped tight around Chuck's cock and made him _throb_.

Chuck's eyes, which had somehow fallen shut of their own accord, flew open. He stared for a moment, Casey's face so close, his breath too stifling, too sultry against muggy heat of his skin, and blurted: "I want you to touch me."

Something erupted in the agent's eyes, something dark, something obscenely sexy. "How?" he asked, but before Chuck could even begin to answer, he slipped his hand beneath the waistband of Chuck's shorts and wrapped his fingers around his cock.

"Oh fuck," Chuck panted, his head lolling uselessly on his neck as Casey began slide his hand along his length slowly, teasingly. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," he moaned. This wasn't happening. This had to be a dream,

Only it _wasn't_.

Chuck forced his eyes open and saw that Casey was staring at him with the type of singular focus that he'd only seen him reserve for enemies in the field. It made Chuck's skin explode into goosebumps and pressure coil in his belly. A shiver dragged down his spine. He tried to buck his hips forward to quicken the pace, but Casey tightened his grip on his wrists, just enough to hurt. It added an edge of pain to the pleasure, and Chuck couldn't hold in the moan that was pulled from him.

It sounded lewd, unhinged. He didn't care.

Casey's palms were rough, calloused, slick. He wasn't gentle. Each time his fingers skimmed he over-sensitive head of his cock, Chuck drowned even deeper into the sensation . His brain was stuck on a loop, alternating between, _'Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,'_ and _'Oh shit oh shit oh shit.'_

His legs were loose and useless beneath him and only the push of Casey's body against his held him upright, pinned between the tile and the slant of Casey's hips, the solid wall of Casey's chest. As the other man jerked him faster, Chuck vaguely heard himself panting out a litany of: "Fuck Casey, oh fuck, CaseyCasey_Casey_," between groans and gasps.

Chuck wanted to touch so badly but Casey held him firm, controlling the pace. He played him so crudely, so roughly, that Chuck knew he'd have bruises on his wrists and feel the lingering memory of Casey's fist around his cock for days afterwards. When Casey kissed him again, it almost _hurt_, like everything suppressed within him was rushing out in a torrent from between his lips.

"Come Chuck," Casey growled into his mouth. "Now."

And Chuck did - _hard_. For a single, prolonged moment, the world and all of its delicious pressure and sensation and wetness and heat, ground down to blissful nothingness. He floated, so fucking high, and then crashed almost violently as he spurted himself all over Casey's hand. When he did, white light flashing behind his eyes, Chuck heard himself groan out Casey's name.

He sagged, his legs a wasted effort, and slid down the shower wall until he was sitting haphazardly in the tub, sticky and loose-limbed. The water from the showerhead was cold and it felt nice against the warm flush of his skin. Casey stepped out of the tub, breathing heavily.

Chuck noticed Casey was still half-hard, but the other man made no move to touch himself. He tried to get up and slipped, falling back heavily, and smacked his head into the tile behind him. "Casey," he croaked, his voice thick, gravelly, and dry.

The NSA agent stared down at him for a long moment, and Chuck saw what was possibly _fear_ in John Casey's eyes. Abruptly, Casey jerked away from the tub and turned from him, surreptitiously adjusting himself as he took a step towards the door. When he spoke, his voice though hard, was tumultuous – as far a cry from the usual stoicism or dry humor that Chuck would have expected from him. It was also weighted with condemnation – turned inwards.

"Finish showering, Bartowski," muttered Casey and left before Chuck could get a word in edgewise.

A line had been crossed, that much was certain. And strangely, it left Chuck with a greater sense of uncertainty than before.

(To be continued…)


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Broke through my writer's block! Anyone still with me? 

**The Art of Kissing John Casey – Part Six**  
***

By some unspoken decree (mainly, Casey's staunch refusal to dignify any of Chuck's questions with something other than a quick glare or a short grunt), it appeared that Chuck and Casey were absolutely _not_ going to discuss what had occurred between them mere hours ago in the shower. Which of course meant that what had happened in the shower was all that Chuck could think about.

For all the emotion that Casey seemed to display at any suggestion of it - and that emotion was none whatsoever - Chuck might have thought he'd dreamt up the whole thing. Except he knew that wasn't the case, at least if the burgeoning hickey lurking just beneath the collar of his work shirt was any indication. Self consciously, Chuck fingered the livid mark through the white fabric, tracing the circular outline and pressing down just enough to make it hurt oh-so-gently. He drew in a shallow breath at the distant twinge of pain, the ache that throbbed through his skin; the memory of Casey's mouth fastened over his collarbone, _sucking_, as if he were trying to siphon his blood straight through his pores.

Almost immediately, a flush swept through him as he was assaulted by the lingering sensation of Casey's hands on him, the press of his body heavy against his own, the wetness...the _heat_. Earlier, he'd tried to wash out Casey's taste from his mouth for a good ten minutes to no avail. Casey's flavor persisted - heady, powerful, _sweet_ - trapped in the corners of his mouth, on his lips, beneath his tongue. In fact, if Chuck licked his lips he could still taste the saltiness of sweat and the faint bitterness of magnesium on them, from when he'd lapped the moisture from Casey's skin.

Without permission or warning, his cock began to harden at the memory and Chuck, with a faintly strained expression tightening his features, immediately sat down at the Nerd Herder desk and tried to think about anything _but_ John Casey. It proved to be impossible. Wherever Chuck looked, Casey was in his line of sight. He was always there, either loitering just on the edge of his vision or just full blown in his cross-hairs, his stupid green polo shirt stretching unfairly tight across his broad chest.

And, to add insult to injury, Casey was ignoring him.

Chuck had first realized he was being ignored when the NSA agent had breezed by he and Morgan as they watched (with varying degrees of amusement and horror) as Jeff and Lester tried to coerce an attractive blonde into applying for a job at the Buy More. Casey's face had been ominously placid, jaw tight and clenched, eyes trained everywhere but on him. Chuck had called out to him, his name thick in his throat, and Casey had just kept walking. Chuck had just stood there, both hurt and angry, his eyes drilling holes into the agent's rather delectable (and retreating) backside. True to form, Jeff and Lester had immediately jumped on the opportunity to ask Chuck if he and Casey had had a lover's quarrel. This forced Chuck to put the incident out of his mind for the time being.

And the remainder of the morning wasn't proving to be any better.  
At every turn, Casey ignored Chuck. And, if Chuck tried to seek out Casey himself, Casey pulled some sort of NSA stealth ninja move on him and eluded him. For a 6'4" man in a green Buy More shirt, the fact that he could just disappear into thin air near a rack of DVDs was as impressive as it was maddening. It didn't help that half of Chuck's frustration came from the fact that he was forcibly reminded of the incident in the shower every time he looked at the other man.

Chuck sighed and tracked Casey's movement, watching him from his perch behind the desk as the agent began to scan in a stack of gaming systems with the sort of clinical efficiency that Big Mike loved, nearly as much as he loved donuts - and the man loved his donuts with a rather unhealthy passion. His sigh turned to a groan, however, when Jeff and Lester sauntered up to the Nerd Herder desk. Chuck looked around desperately for Morgan, as Lester settled himself on the desk. He grit his teeth as he caught his best friend ducking into the supply closet with Anna.

_Damn it_.

He turned back to the two men and offered them his best bored expression, hoping that the pair would get the hint. They didn't - of course. "What's up guys?" he finally asked, trying to sound as unenthusiastic as possible. Lester blinked, eyes dark and furtive - a bit like a ferret, if Chuck had to draw a comparison - and glanced significantly at Casey, whose back was thankfully turned. He paused - for dramatic effect, Chuck supposed - and waited several beats before asking point blank the question that was obviously too tantalizing for the pair to ignore. "So what's the deal with you and your boyfriend, Chuck? You've been watching him all day."

"Yeah," Jeff piped in, before Chuck could sputter out an answer, "you're acting like your _boy_friend just broke up with you." The two high-fived, which made Chuck suspect they'd been thinking about possible insults all morning and had planned out this ambush carefully. He hoped his irritation hid his guilty flush as, unbidden, his mind rapidly flashed back through the events of the morning. He suddenly felt hot beneath his collar; stifled. His pants were a bit tighter.

Right then, Chuck very badly wanted to be talking to _anyone_ but Jeff and Lester.

Charles Xavier would have mentally suggested that the odd pair go and bother someone else. Chuck, however, was _not_ Professor X and therefore had to make due with suffering through awkward conversations when they were sprung upon him. He gave the two a stiff smile, shrugged, fiddled with a pen on the desk. "That's ridiculous," he replied at length, scoffing. "I have a girlfriend. You guys do remember Sarah, right?"

A dreamy, if somewhat lewd expression crossed Jeff's features. "Yeah," he drawled, "Sarah..." The smile that slipped across the older man's face was nothing short of disturbing. Even Lester gave his friend an uncertain look, before refocusing on Chuck.

"Well, _something_ is going on - you can't hide it from us," he said.

Chuck arched a brow at that. "Oh? And why's that?" he asked, resolutely keeping his eyes trained on the other man when Casey passed by the desk. He was discomfited to find that it took some effort to keep his gaze from immediately wandering towards the agent, and frowned deeply at the revelation. Chuck pushed himself back into his chair, ignoring Lester's prying stare.

"You can't keep anything from us, Chuck," Lester said assuredly, with Jeff nodding in agreement. "We can tell there's something going on between you two. We're sharp like that...like, uh, like -"

"- like Columbus!" Jeff exclaimed.

"Don't you mean Columb_o_?" Chuck asked dryly. He didn't wait for an answer as he hopped up from his chair. "Listen," he said, "you guys can think what you want. But there's nothing going on between me and John Casey." At Lester's skeptical expression, he gestured towards the man in question. Sensing the scrutiny, Casey turned suddenly and briefly caught Chuck's eye. The flinty heat of the other man's gaze burrowed into the lines of his skin, made his palms damp with nervous excitement; itchy with uncertainty and the desire to touch. Casey's gaze immediately narrowed in annoyance and suspicion. "Um," stammered Chuck, forgetting what he was going to say as Casey turned a little more to regard him fully, the intensity of his gaze increasing tenfold. "Um, I mean, _look_ at him."

Jeff looked over his shoulder and laughed suggestively, sounding just a little drunk, which was entirely possible. "Yeah, John would be too much man for you," he said, which Chuck found a bit perplexing and offensive. Jeff tilted towards him conspiratorially. "Because that guy is Grade A man meat."

"Ew," Lester said, edging away from Jeff.

"Yeah, okay then," Chuck said, more than a little disturbed by the manner in which Jeff was now leering at Casey. "I've gotta go do uh, something - away from here." With that, Chuck turned and strode hastily away, nearly running into a petite woman who was browsing the digital cameras. He was sure that his exit strategy was less than elegant, but at that point he couldn't have cared less. He just needed a moment to himself. He just needed a moment to gather his thoughts.

As if on cue, his cellphone buzzed. Digging it from his pants, Chuck glanced at the screen, sighed, and slipped it back into his pocket. He looked around and caught Casey concentrating on him with a curious intensity that made something twist low in his gut. The NSA agent held his gaze for a moment longer and then abruptly turned and headed towards the Home Theater room.

A moment later, Chuck followed. 

**-VVV-**

Chuck exited the Home Theater, trailing behind Casey in a daze. It felt as if he'd been donkey-kicked in the chest, or, at the very least, like he'd been on the receiving end of Ryu's devastating Shoryuken punch. He drifted behind the NSA agent unseen, his mind brimming over with the details of the last half hour. He was numb.

Cole Barker was replacing him on the mission. Cole Barker was replacing him on the mission. Cole Barker was -

"- Hey Chuck! Buddy, hey - where're you going?"

Chuck looked up at the sound of the familiar voice that cut across his thoughts and blinked a few times until he'd pulled Morgan into sharp focus. The shorter man came to halt in front of him and stood there, rolling on the balls of his feet. He radiated a sort of restless energy that usually indicated he'd come across something relative to _his_ interests, that he was determined to make relative to Chuck's interests, too.

Over Morgan's head, Chuck saw Casey pause and glance back at him. Something slid across the agent's features and Chuck watched the other man grapple – just for the space of a breath – to close off his expression. There was stillness in Casey's eyes, a hardness that made the tightness in Chuck's chest return in spades. His brain felt stupid with a single thought: _Cole Barker was replacing him on the mission._

There was nothing apologetic in Casey's gaze, no fear – nothing to indicate that the reason he'd asked General Beckman to bring in Cole Barker was because of what had happened between him and Chuck. The ache he'd been feeling – that curious pressure of his chest, began to squeeze painfully tight at the thought that all of his confusion was just, was just…

…_an assignment_. The quiet, gruff voice that had been telling him that all week, was suddenly loud between his ears and laughing with ugly Joker's laughter. '_An assignment, an assignment!'_ it chanted in singsong cadence. It chuckled nastily and told him that it'd been right all along: This was nothing more than a job to Casey - _he_ was nothing more than an Asset.

"Dude, are you listening?" he heard Morgan say, "They're totally animating '_A Death in the Family'_ for the new Batman: Under the Red Hood movie! Do you hear what I'm saying?" Morgan pressed, "..Family." His friend paused, evidently expecting more of a reaction from Chuck than a blank stare. Casey turned back and walked away. Morgan began talking again, completely missing the hurt expression that lingered in Chuck's eyes in his excitement.

"I mean, that's one of the _definitive_ moments in Batman's career – he _loved_ Jason Todd, right? And Jason liked, loved him and that's why he came back as the Red Hood - because he couldn't be apart from him. I mean even when Tim Drake figured it all out and became the third Robin, Batman still looked at him and saw Jason." Morgan buzzed with energy; he rolled to his toes and then back onto his heels before he said, "You think Batman fucks all his Robins?"

_That_ got Chuck's attention. He squinted down at his best friend, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. "What? Of course not!" he exclaimed, the fanboy in him immediately and deeply offended. It was an old argument between them: Chuck could concede that Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson probably had a little more going on than man and his ward, but as to all the others he was doubtful.

"You're wrong," Morgan argued and then began to outline – in explicit detail – just _why_ the Dark Knight gave all of his Robins a healthy dose of Bat-love in the back of the Batmobile. Chuck welcomed the distraction; he allowed his mind to fall back into an old conversation that had been rehashed time and time again. He allowed himself to sink into the comfortable banter that had always come easily with Morgan.

Just once, he glanced up and looked around before looking quickly back at his friend. For the first time that day, Casey was nowhere to be found.

The ache in Chuck's chest grew into something with clearly defined, sharp edges. 

**-VVV-**

"It smells like a dive-bar urinal in here."

Chuck glanced up from where he sat in the middle of his bed – in _his_ room, thankyouverymuch – playing a quick game of "Last Man Standing", in an online Call of Duty campaign. The people he was playing with were some hardcore gamers from Germany. He was getting his ass kicked.

Chuck turned away from his open window and ignored Casey as the agent ducked his head and entered the room, settling his feet on the ruined carpet with a wet squish. Casey frowned in disgust as he critically eyed the moisture that immediately soaked into his dress shoes. For a moment Chuck sympathized with him, and then he remembered that he was upset with Casey; hurt and unsure, and a million other emotions that fell into one jumbled category. It only equaled one thing - Epically Pissed. It was the only reason he'd subject himself to sitting in a room that smelled like a sewer, playing Call of Duty with a group of people who kicked his ass over and over and taunted him in German.

And still it was better than sitting in a room with Casey, trying to hold back everything that he wanted to say. It hurt less, too.

"Bartowski," growled Casey, in a tone that clearly said: _don't ignore me or you'll regret it. _

Chuck continued to ignore him.

He heard Casey squish across the carpet to the bed – onscreen he was lining up a perfect headshot on some player named 'sorryyousuck778' – when the controller was unexpectedly ripped from his hands. "Hey!" exclaimed Chuck. He made a grab for the controller, only to be shoved back roughly onto the mattress. Casey stood at the foot of the bed with his eyes trained on the screen, and began pressing buttons on the controller. Positive that his character was in the process of having a live grenade slipped into its pocket, Chuck craned his head around Casey and watched with growing disbelief as the other man went around the map and took out _every single player_. By himself. With his combat knife and nothing else.

"No fucking way," Chuck burst out, forgetting that he had his headset on. The comm. was utterly silent for a moment, before erupting into a chorus of what he could only assume was angry German. He removed the headset just as Casey tossed the controller down onto the bed.

"That's how it's done, Bartowski," Casey grumbled, looking more unimpressed than somebody who had just elevated themselves to the status of Call of Duty _god_, had any right to look.

Morgan was never going to believe him.

"Let me guess: learning how to kick the butts of 14 year olds online is something they taught you in the NSA?" Chuck replied sarcastically.

Casey didn't flinch, just remained stoic and said flatly, "Walker thought it might help if we became acquainted with some of your interests – know your target and you can better protect them. So I learned." He shrugged as if it were no big deal.

It was things like that – things that Casey thought nothing of and that Chuck thought everything of – that made the anger he felt towards the other man intensify another tenfold. The ache – the tightness that made him pull the air forcefully into his lungs – returned as he leaned back on the bed and regarded Casey looming above him. The agent folded his arms across his chest, shifted his feet; he kept his gaze steady and unwavering.

Chuck looked away first. "What do you want?" he muttered.

Of course, Chuck could have told somebody any number of things that he expected Casey to say, from "You're a moron" to "Don't forget there's an early morning service meeting for all you nerd techs tomorrow." Most of them, however, revolved around the words: "Cole Barker is better than you because…" Then, there was a very small part of his mind that imagined Casey would say, "I'm sorry."

'_As if'_, he snorted to himself. It was utterly idiotic to expect _those_ words to come out of Casey's mouth. Ever.

As expected, Casey didn't tell him "I'm sorry." He still managed to throw Chuck off-guard, nevertheless. "Wear something nice - we're going to dinner at 7:00," said Casey. Just like that; just like Chuck was some girl he was taking out to dinner before the prom.

Of all the replies that Chuck could have given, the first one came out of his mouth before he could stop it. "Are you taking me on a _date_?"

Something ticked in Casey's jaw; something flashed behind his eyes, darkened them with memory. All at once Chuck was back in the shower: wet, hard tile at his back…wet, hard _Casey_ at his front. His skin flushed hot and when Casey shifted his gaze to focus on a point near Chuck's collarbone, he felt heat pool low in his belly. Casey took a step towards him, sunk one knee down onto the mattress before abruptly standing again. The agent pulled himself physically straighter, his back rigid with tension. He turned from Chuck with a scowl. "Just be ready at 7. It's just dinner – don't get your panties a twist about it, Bartowski."

Chuck's anger returned and he knew it showed. "That's all?" he asked. His voice was thick in his throat.

"That's all," affirmed Casey tightly, his face suddenly void of expression. Without waiting to hear if Chuck had anything else to say, the NSA agent slipped out the window just as quickly as he had come.

Chuck sat on his bed for a while longer and stared with disinterest at the Call of Duty launch screen, where sometime in the last ten minutes he'd amassed no less than thirty invitations to join various parties in their campaigns. There were at least that many messages blinking at him from the corner of the screen, most of them bearing subject lines like, "DUDE! You are KILLING GOD!" to "UR SUCH A LOZER BITCH BETCHU CAN'T DO IT AGAIN!"

After a moment, Chuck got up and turned off the console. All of this unexpectedly seemed so _trivial_, in light of…well, recent events, he supposed. He knew Morgan would be disappointed in him. He then went over to his closet and rifled through his clothing, picking out that might be suitable for dinner. "Of course," he muttered to himself, holding up a black button down that Ellie absolutely loved on him, "Casey didn't say _where_ we're going." He snorted. Typical.

Dark blue jeans and the black shirt was the best it was going to get, so Chuck finally vacated his room and retreated from the smell that had begun to bury itself into his skin. He refused to go back to Casey's – to that bed, that damned _shower_ - so Chuck draped himself on the couch and settled in to watch some reruns of Voltron 

**-VVV-**

Chuck was running late – Casey was going to be _pissed_. Which, truth be told, wasn't such a far cry from the NSA agent's usual state of being. In the shower – his own shower, not _that_ shower – Chuck had decided something: he was going to lay it all out there. He was going to find out exactly where he stood with the other man.

He knew it was a somewhat foolish undertaking - Casey after all, wasn't a dream to communicate with – but Chuck wanted to know. He needed to know. He needed to know exactly _what_ had happened between them that made Casey want Cole Barker here instead of him.

Chuck tugged his fingers through his damp hair and looked at his reflection in the mirror, wet tendrils clinging stubbornly to his forehead before he pushed them back. His mind had been repeating the same thing it had been for the past few days: _This was nothing more than a mission to Casey; a job._ And yet, Chuck knew that something _more_ had happened. He knew it in the itch of his palms and the dull heat that crept along the back of his neck; he knew it in the strange clench of his stomach as the minutes crept towards 7:00PM.

7:00PM. Dinner with Casey.

Chuck curled his hands around the sink, hard, and tried not to lose his nerve. He could do this. He had to know, even though he wasn't sure he truly wanted to hear what Casey's answer would be. Chuck straightened and tried to get a handle on his nerves. He felt jittery, almost restless; anticipation coiled at the base of his spine.

The doorbell rang at 6:45PM and Chuck took a deep, steadying breath and exited the bathroom. Of course Casey would be early; _he_ was the one always running late. "Come in!" he shouted as he hastened to shrug into his black shirt. He was fumbling with the buttons of his shirt – his fingers stupid with sudden apprehension – as he stepped into the living room. "It'll just be another couple of minutes - I wasn't watching the clock," he said apologetically. When Chuck looked up he froze, his hands stilling heir clumsy movement as shock robbed him of all motion.

There, standing in the doorway with an easy, attractive smile settled onto his handsome face, was Cole Barker. The British agent wore a pair of simple black jeans and a sports jacket over a vintage t-shirt. He made "cool" look effortless. Cole regarded him for a moment as Chuck stared at him, his features twisted in confusion. Cole was obviously amused and sympathetic to his surprise, and he leaned forward and gently batted Chuck's hands away from his shirt. With a careful, practiced air, Cole finished buttoning Chuck's shirt, leaving the top one undone. He winked at Chuck. "Looks better that way, love," he said. He then fixed Chuck's collar, straightening it, and when he did the pads of his thumbs gently caressed the hollow of Chuck's throat, causing him to jump.

Cole laughed and said, "Ready to go?"

(To be continued…)


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Believe you me, I'm just as amazed I got this chapter out so quickly! Writer's block officially gone? ;)

**The Art of Kissing John Casey – Part Seven**  
***

Twenty-minutes into his dinner with Cole Barker, Chuck became resigned to the fact that Ashton Kutcher was _not_ going to come waltzing through the door of P.F. Chang's with Casey, and tell him that he'd been Punk'd.

Twenty-seven minutes found him staring at a plate of firecracker shrimp that he was trying hard to pretend didn't look appetizing. Chuck was also trying to pretend that the two drinks in front of him - some bright green concoction that he was embarrassed to even look at – were not his. And their offensive color wasn't necessarily the worst part about them, either. The worst part had to be the fact that _Cole had ordered them for him_. In fact, the agent's exact words to their waitress were still making him itch. "And why don't you get my boyfriend here something 'fun' to drink, won't you love?"

In Chuck's opinion, that statement had been simply _wrong_ on at least two counts.

Not that stating he was on a date with his boyfriend had deterred their waitress from madly flirting with the British agent, of course. She was young and fresh-faced, with a sort of innocent look that made her seem more adorable than sexy, even when she was trying to shove her breasts in Cole's face. She'd come by twice, unbidden, with drinks each time, which is how Chuck came to be staring at two beverages that he was certain only bubbly girls drank on their twenty-first birthdays. When he'd managed to wrest a minute of waitress Rachel's attention away from Cole to ask what the drinks were, she'd advised him that they were called "Alien Secretions", which had made Chuck immediately regret asking.

Cole reached out and lightly touched Chuck's wrist, causing him to jump and snatch his hand back reflexively. The other man didn't look offended; rather, he smiled almost apologetically, which seemed infinitely worse, mainly because it made Chuck feel like a jackass. Cole raised his drink – a dirty martini, waitress Rachel had giggled and blushed over that one – and proposed a toast.

"To good food and even better company," Cole said.

Chuck raised his own glass, though his hands were a bit shaky with nerves, which caused him to slosh most of the bright green liquid onto the table. "Um, yeah," he replied. "I guess." Chuck then knocked back what was left of his beverage in one swallow. He was annoyed to discover it tasted delicious.

Cole set down his drink and, with unexpected quickness, reached out and purposefully took one of Chuck's hands in his own. He entwined their fingers firmly though casually, so to an outside observer it might appear an almost natural gesture. Chuck felt his palms grow sweaty as restlessness sparked along his fingertips. "Listen Chuck," said Cole with a serious air, "I know this comes as a surprise to you – "

"— Um yeah it comes as a surprise!" interrupted Chuck, annoyance crossing his features. "Where's Casey?" He looked around, half expecting to see the NSA agent sitting at another table, watching them. His surprise didn't come from the rush of disappointment when he didn't see the agent anywhere, but rather from how sure he'd been that Casey _would_ be there. He cut his eyes back towards Cole and tried to ignore the gentle manner in which the other man was stroking his thumb across the inside of his wrist. His skin tingled where Cole touched him and it made Chuck want nothing more than to yank his hand back and tuck it safely away in his pocket. "I thought," Chuck began, and then sighed, pulling his free hand through his hair. "I thought _you_ were replacing _me_, not Casey."

Cole gave him an appraising look, leaning in closer and lowering his voice so that Chuck had to lean forward as well in order to hear him clearly. "Apparently Agent Casey thought that you'd work better with me than with him. He seemed to be under the impression that you would have an easier time completing the mission without him around to _distract_ you." Cole watched him carefully, searching for something in Chuck's expression.

Chuck glanced away, feeling resentful and wounded. How could Casey just _leave_ him like this? And it wasn't _his_ fault that Casey distracted him – the man was unnervingly distracting when soaking wet and _hard_, pressed up against him with his hands hot on his body, his lips _everywhere_…

Chuck abruptly realized that certain parts of his anatomy were stirring, clearly interested in pursuing his train of thought to its conclusion. He straightened in his seat and took a large swallow of his second drink, and hoped that Cole attributed his sudden flush to the alcohol. If the MI6 agent suspected anything to the contrary, he chose not to say. Instead, Cole released his hand and sat back in his chair. He regarded Chuck over the top of his martini glass for a lingering moment, before downing the beverage in two gulps.

The waitress was already placing another drink on the table for Cole, before he'd even popped the gin-soaked olive into his mouth. "So I never did get the full story," Cole mentioned casually, "as to what happened between you and Agent Casey that caused General Beckman to request my presence for this mission."

Chuck opened his mouth to reply, then shut it with a snap, blushing furiously despite his best effort not to. All he could think about was the stupid _shower_, and strangely, the half-moon scar he'd seen on Casey's upper thigh when he'd been wearing those goddamned red shorts. He didn't trust his voice right then, so Chuck bought some time by polishing off his second drink in a record time of point five seconds. Waitress Rachel was considerably slower in bringing him a new drink, but he didn't begrudge her tardiness. After all, he didn't have a smile that could make women drop their panties on the spot, nor did he have the cool British accent to match.

As Chuck stared curiously into his electric green beverage, a sudden thought struck him. "Hey!" he exclaimed. "How'd you get here so fast?" Chuck squinted at Cole and sipped his drink. "England is _far away_," he added, accusingly. Chuck felt warmth spread through his belly and chest – there was a reason he didn't drink a lot, and that reason was that he was a terrible lightweight.

Cole seemed to pick up on this fact and grinned at him with an easy, smooth smile. Chuck was beginning to get a little annoyed with how effortless the British agent made everything seem, but he kept the thought to himself and drank a little more, instead. "I actually flew in yesterday," Cole answered. "Agent Casey apparently thought I might be needed sooner rather than later."

"Oh really?" Chuck asked, a bit glumly. He felt defeated – he'd really been trying to work with Casey. In fact, it'd been less _trying_ and more _doing_, though what it boiled down to was that Chuck had been surprisingly comfortable with the growing intimacy between him and the NSA agent. He sighed and rested his chin in his hand. He finished his drink without thought, and automatically reached for the new one that was set down for him a moment later.

Cole frowned. "What have you and Agent Casey done to prepare for the mission?" he asked, leaning forward again. Chuck failed to notice how low Cole's voice had become or how unexpectedly slinky it sounded, as if his words were edged in mink.

Chuck picked at his untouched appetizer, moving a piece of breaded shrimp around on his plate with his fork. He shrugged noncommittally and didn't look at Cole. "Um, this and that," he muttered. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to be having – least of all with Cole Barker – though as the minutes rolled by and the alcohol began to flow through his veins, he was having a hard time remembering exactly why he never liked the MI6 agent.

Cole raised a brow and a corner of his mouth quirked upwards. All at once he appeared mischievous, like a smiling, well-groomed fox. He also looked insufferably suave, but Chuck wasn't paying attention to any of that; he was too busy enjoying the way his blood thrummed hotly beneath his skin, warmed by the liquor settling into system. Belatedly, Chuck became aware that a curious charge had saturated the air, like the crackle of ozone before a thunderstorm rolled in. He straightened a bit and shifted back, unable to read the glint in Cole's eyes.

Nonchalantly, the British agent reached out and again took one of Chuck's hands in his own. He lightly massaged Chuck's palm with his thumb, and slowly brought Chuck's fingers to his mouth. Chuck was unable to look away, unable to move – frozen like a fawn caught in the fog lights of an oncoming truck. He had the sneaking suspicion that everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing and were looking at him. "Uh, wh-what're you doing?" he stuttered out, right before his index finger was enveloped in the wet, hot heat of Cole's mouth.

"Oh shit!" Chuck exclaimed weakly, his cheeks flaming red as he watched his finger slip into Cole's mouth to the knuckle, before sliding back out again. It was slick and shiny; Cole blew lightly on the moistened digit and Chuck's whole arm erupted into goosebumps. Cole kissed his palm, and then slipped Chuck's middle finger past his lips, curling his tongue gently around it; hot, so fucking hot. He pulled it from his mouth with wet '_pop'_.

"Have you done things like this before?" asked Cole.

And Chuck was having a hard time answering, not because his brain had short circuited – though that was part of it – but because he was painfully aware that every pair eyes in the restaurant were suddenly trained on him and Cole. It was like the embarrassing dream that is portrayed in every slapstick comedy, where some poor, oblivious bastard – usually the down on luck protagonist – finds himself or herself somewhere public, wearing nothing but their birthday suit and a look of horror. "I, uh, no," Chuck finally managed. He half-heartedly tried to reclaim his hand, but Cole's grip was firm and tight. 'Nothing like this," he finished, aware of how noisy his breathing started to become, when Cole began to suck on the tips of each of his fingers in turn.

After a moment, Cole finally relinquished his hold on Chuck's hand and sat back. He gave Chuck a small, though genuine smile. "That's good to know," said Cole conversationally, as if just a minute ago he hadn't been mouth-fucking Chuck's fingers in a restaurant full of people. He wiped a dot of saliva from his bottom lip with a swipe of his thumb. Chuck acted as if he didn't notice and Cole let Chuck believe he was being discreet. "I would have thought Agent Casey would've taken you _much_ farther along, considering the short time frame," Cole mused, almost as an afterthought.

Chuck finished his drink and narrowed his eyes at Cole suspiciously. His head was pleasantly muzzy at this point, though he knew somewhere deep down (where he was infinitely more sober), that there was some sort of danger rolling off of the British agent, Coming from Cole the feeling was almost insidious, and it settled across Chuck's shoulders like a cashmere shawl. It was very much different than the raw, overwhelming menace that clung to Casey like a pheromone. That it was a pheromone that Chuck _liked_, remained unsaid.

As Cole Barker smiled at him, teeth white and straight, his brown eyes warm and inviting, Chuck's good sense made one last bid. _'This is the guy who nearly seduced Sarah from right under your nose!'_ reminded the tiny, sensible voice from the back of his mind. And yet, thinking about Sarah and their fake relationship only served to remind him of Casey and their…relationship - and of his confusion and uncertainty.

And oh yeah: he was still Epically Pissed at the NSA agent.

Chuck grinned back at Cole, and, with liquid courage coursing through him, boldly asked the man across the table, "How much farther?"

Cole's grin widened, smooth as silk. When he spoke, his voice dripped like honey over razor wire. "We've got a lot of ground to cover, love."

**-VVV-**

Chuck was unapologetically drunk. He was the seeing double, stumbling, sloppy, I-have-a-vendetta-against-my-liver type of drunk. And fuck if he cared at that moment.

He wasn't sure how he and Cole made it to the bar – though it was less a bar than one of those kitschy lounges that he'd never been able to get into, at least without having to pay a ludicrous cover charge – and he wasn't certain when tequila had gotten involved either. All he knew was that he was ensconced in one of those half-circle booths that had cushions lined in crushed velvet, and that there were things draped in black suede and blue lights _everywhere_. It was kind of pleasant, or it might have been if it didn't feel as if the house music that was spinning, was throbbing right in between his temples. Though Chuck was vaguely surprised and thrilled that they played Gigi di'Agostino in an upscale place like this. Cole was pushed right up against him, warm at his side, and the British agent had a hand on his thigh.

"Feeling okay?" asked Cole, his mouth right against his ear. His breath was hot and sultry against his skin; Chuck felt like he was burning up. It was an unpleasant feeling. Chuck leaned back in the booth and didn't answer; just ground his palms into the cushions on either side of him and tried to stabilize his world. He turned his head to say something, something important he thought, when suddenly his mouth was full of the taste of Cole Barker.

Chuck toppled into the kiss sloppily, his hands coming up on reflex alone to curve around the shorter man's shoulders. Cole's beard scraped roughly against his skin, burned his lips, felt strange when he touched it with the tips of his fingers.

Kissing Cole Barker was entirely different than kissing John Casey. Where Casey was a rock, a solid anchor that Chuck could wrap himself around, Cole made him feel like he was falling too fast and too deeply into him; into nothing. Everything about Cole – his heat, his flavor - slipped through the imperfections of Chuck's skin, slid down his spine. It was pleasant, sure, but it also felt _wrong_ somehow.

Chuck yanked back, gasping for air. His world spun like a broken carousel that lurched in drunken fits. He felt his stomach do a flip, than a flop, and it was more nauseating than anything else. Cole wound his fingers in his hair, pulled him close, and kissed him again, slower this time, drawing him gradually into it. For a while, Chuck lost himself to the agent's persistent lips and to his talented mouth and questing fingers.

When he drew back this time, Chuck rested his forehead against Cole's, squeezing his eyes shut as he willed the ground to stop shifting. "Cole," he breathed, sagging forward, "Cole, I'm…I…don't feel good," he muttered. He tried to sit up and ended up flopping back in the booth, boneless and loose. He noticed that his shirt buttons were undone and he wondered when that had happened. "I want, I want," he couldn't think; everything felt so soupy and loose inside of his head. His thoughts were colliding in his brain, like drunk drivers destined to get DUI's.

Cole lifted Chuck's chin with his fingers and brushed his lips along the underside of his jaw. "What is it you need, love?"

Chuck closed his eyes, breathed out through his nose. He felt so hot, so uncomfortable. "Casey," he mumbled. Cole's eyes shot open and he gave Chuck an intense and speculative look. It was then that Chuck realized that the British agent wasn't nearly as drunk as he'd thought he was.

"We _do_ have a lot of work to do," said Cole, thoughtfully, but Chuck wasn't listening. His head lolled against Cole's shoulder and he nuzzled into the other man's neck. Cole smelled all wrong and Chuck told him as much. "I do?" asked Cole in amusement.

"Water," croaked Chuck in reply. When Cole laughed, it echoed and sounded far away to Chuck's ears. "Not funny," he muttered.

"Come on, buddy, let's get you back to Agent Casey. We'll resume this tomorrow."

**-VVV-**

Cole deposited Chuck onto Casey's doorstep at 4:17AM, with a bottle of water in one hand and bag of Jack in the Box in the other. They hadn't even rung the doorbell before the door was yanked open, revealing a furious Casey looming in the entrance.

He caught Chuck as he fell into the door when Cole released him, unable to hold himself upright for too long. Chuck collapsed heavily against Casey, and then felt his world even out like a becalmed ship when the NSA agent looped an arm firmly around his waist. If he sighed contentedly, nobody commented on it. "Casey," he said, with what was totally _not_ a giggle. "Casey look," he pressed, holding up the bag of Jack in the Box. "I can haz cheeseburger nao!" He started to laugh and unsurprisingly, Casey didn't laugh with him.

"Shut up, Bartowski," Casey grunted. The big man jabbed a finger at Cole, who stood watching the scene unfold with an amused curve of his lips. "I told you to have him back by two AM."

Cole held up his hands in mock defense, though he did take another step out of Casey's immediate kill zone. "What can I say, Major? We had – have – a lot of ground to cover. I was making sure to utilize every minute I had with Chuck to _prepare_ him adequately. We must've lost track of time. We were _occupied_ with other things, you know."

Chuck thought he heard a rumble deep in Casey's chest, like the displeased rumble of a lion that has spotted another male within his territory. It made him giggle again, before his world began to list wildly to the first to the left, then the right, making him feel like he was once again on a ship being tossed in violent sea storm. "Um Casey," he mumbled, clinging to the big man, "I think I'm gonna be sick."

He thought Casey might have grunted something at him - he wasn't paying close attention - but he was pretty certain he heard him growl to Cole. "I'll deal with you later, Barker."

To which Cole may or may not have replied: "Give Chuck a kiss goodnight for me, Agent Casey."

The next thing that registered in Chuck's muddled mind was that Casey had slammed the door rather forcefully in Cole's face. "Hey," said Chuck, "that wasn't very nice."

"Can it, Bartowski," Casey grumbled in reply. "I don't have the patience for your drunken babble right now."

Chuck allowed himself to be led up the stairs towards the bathroom, practically half-carried and half-dragged by the NSA agent. He started to protest the treatment, tried to tell Casey that the room was begining to seesaw in a sickening manner, like those moving floors in a carnival fun house, when he was all at once puking his brains out into the toilet. "Ungh," Chuck muttered, resting his cheek against the cool porcelain, "Casey...I'm dying. Please end it. _Please_."

Casey didn't reply. He only knelt down next to Chuck and rubbed a hand between his shoulder blades, before curling his fingers around the back of his neck. Casey's palm was cool and dry against the damp heat of his skin, and it felt good. Chuck sagged beneath the contact, like some sort of beta going limp and submissive beneath his alpha's touch. Chuck reached up and flushed the toilet, his cheek still pressed against cold hardness of the rim. "I hate Cole Barker," he muttered as the room once again began a lazy spin.

"You're going to hate yourself more when you wake up in the morning," Casey assured him, blandly. He helped Chuck up to his feet and guided him over to the sink. He pointed to the Listerine. "Use it," he commanded.

Chuck complied, swaying wildly on his feet until Casey placed a steadying hand on the small of his back. "Hey," he said after he spit, managing to get most of the purple liquid into the sink basin, "I'm mad at you, y'know." He tried to jerk away from Casey and narrowly avoided falling on his face, before Casey caught the back of his shirt. Casey again rested his hand against the back of Chuck's neck.

"Easy, Bartowski," he muttered, his voice a soothing burr that Chuck could practically _feel_ brush down his spine. "Let's just get you to bed."

It was just a short trip down the hall and to the bedroom. As soon as Chuck saw Casey's bed, he fell into it gladly, sprawling out right in the middle like an overindulged housecat. He stared up at the ceiling and tried not to let fan rotating above him spin everything too fast and too out of control. He felt Casey untie his shoes and pull them off. "Hey, Casey," he asked, aware that his words were little better than an intelligible slur.

"What, Bartowski?" grunted the NSA agent as he pulled off Chuck's socks.

"Were you going to sleep here tonight?"

There was a pause and Chuck felt Casey settle onto the bed next to him and begin to maneuver him out of his shirt. "I was planning on sleeping on the couch," he said at last.

Chuck frowned. "Oh," he replied, and tried not to sound too disappointed. He _was_ still pissed at Casey, after all - Epically Pissed, even. They lapsed into a strange sort of silence, a thick silence that was all at once obnoxiously loud with everything that was unsaid between them.

Chuck wasn't sure how much time passed, but eventually, he felt his eyes growing heavy with sleep. Suddenly, he was just so fucking _exhausted_, as if the stress of the past several days finally began to leak out from his seams. He felt Casey throw a blanket over him and opened his eyes, catching a glimpse of the other man as he leaned over him and tucked the blanket beneath his chin. He grabbed Casey's wrist as if to push him away, but there was no strength in his fingers. There so many things that Chuck wanted to say to Casey, things that he was positive the other man didn't want to talk about, but his mind just wasn't cooperating with him. He just wanted to pass out, to sleep, and hopefully wake up without a hangover of apocalyptic proportions. Regarding the latter, however, Chuck wasn't counting on it.

He let his hand fall away and let his eyes drop shut. "Casey," he mumbled, half-asleep. His whole body felt heavy, sluggish. The room continued to sway and twirl unpleasantly around him.

"What is it?"

"Make the room stop spinning."

Chuck felt Casey place his large hand on his forehead, felt his thick fingers push the hair back from his temples. All at once the room ceased its unsettling rotation. Everything calmed and became still, anchored by the solid weight of Casey's palm against his brow. "Thanks," he murmured.

He was already asleep and snoring lightly when Casey muttered, "Good night, Chuck."

(To be continued...)


End file.
